


starved.

by Scornful_truth



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Artist - Saihara Shuichi, Bad Parenting, Body Dysphoria, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Abuse, Fainting, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Modeling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Triggers, implied smoking, implied suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scornful_truth/pseuds/Scornful_truth
Summary: Kokichi was never beautiful.He realized that as he looked at pictures of him when he was young. Ugly, small, useless. All the nights he stood posing in front of the mirror, looking himself over. Checking for flaws, mistakes, blemishes. It had him hating every ounce of skin he left out for the public eye. He felt assaulted with stares, even when his Instagram page blows up every single post, he hates it, he just hates it.
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Oma Kokichi, Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 89
Kudos: 597





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "We're a sad generation with happy faces."

The cold strap of the measuring tape slid around his torso. Rigid unknowing chills rolled down his spine as he straightened his back, sucking in slowly through his pale lips a deep breath to seem taller, and thinner.

Kokichi’s bare feet were flat against the tile floor as he raised his chin. Slim fingers glided down his jaw and traced his uncovered neck, sending frigid shivers down the front of his chest and to his hands that gripped impatiently. Waiting for the fingers that pulled the yellow measuring tape to quit tugging so gently, and yet remaining so uncomfortably still. 

Those fingernails, unchipped and smooth, grazed the skin of his stomach as they murmured a measurement and moved the tape up around his chest. Pulling once again, unlike his waist, this measurement was clearly bigger. So the tape dropped quicker, searching eyes and professional judgment looked away from his nearly bare body.

At the absence of their hands, he rolled his shoulders, cracking the stiff bones in his neck as he looked around the dressing room. The white, and bland dressing room. 

“He’s ready,” The seamstress muttered quietly in passing. To the woman, who created and shaped him into the silver lining for all public eyes. The woman with a camera hanging around her neck eyed him with no color, no emotion. She only but tilted her head towards the exit in a gesture for him to follow. 

Kokichi nodded, wordlessly walking in her shadow. Trailing behind her, staring at the floor as she led him to the cloth draped from the ceiling, hanging down to sprawl out onto the floor. It was pure white. Just like the shorts he wore, hugging close to his skin as he stepped onto the rough felted fabric. Despite it looking so soft.

There was a white-painted chair in the center. Old fashion and seemingly wooden from a simple glance. Meant to look perfect and seamless. 

“Ouma,” The photographer, that woman, handed him a shirt. “Look loose, alright?” It was a rhetorical question. She turned to her co-workers as she gestured for him to arrange himself according to their ideals. 

Kokichi slipped the shirt over his head, white, matching the scene, matching his skin, and his blank slate of a mood. The shirt hugged his wrists at the sleeve and hung loosely off his body around his torso. It was oversized, purposely folding around his body to make it look as though he was too lazy to find something that fits. If he were to raise his arms, his stomach and bottom of his ribs would show. Not that this was designed for daily clothing use. 

In the chair, sat someone who he’s grown painfully accustomed to. Someone adorned in the same outfit, with the daunting name of Amami Rantaro. The chair was facing away from the camera, displaying only the side. 

“Ahh, good morning my dearest Amami.” He hummed, smiling a worn grin as he approached him. Rantaro smiled at him politely, relaxing at the sight of him. They’ve been friends since their careers launched when they were minors. Ever since their young faces were for a picture at 13 years old. Just innocent, back then, it was harmless.

“Good morning, Ouma,” He greeted properly. “Should we get this over with?”

Kokichi had his answer delayed when he heard the description of their ideal pose. He grimaced at what it entailed.

_ Back then it used to be so innocent. _

He sighed, throwing Rantaro a tired smile. “I don’t think there is another way to go about it.” He chirped, his voice dragged in dislike. He sat on Rantaro’s lap, throwing his arms around his friend lovelessly. Shaking himself to relax against the others' more sturdy body and look lazily at the camera. Displaying a weary, tired smile. A smile that used to be fake, that turned into a reality.

The bright flashes of white light blinded his eyes, he kept his eyes from fluttering, and his face from wincing in tone shifts. He kept that smile, his arms around the neck of his friend who moved his hands around his waist. Pretending that those viewers didn’t matter, or just didn’t exist. As if he was so in love with Kokichi. 

He switched, facing Rantaro and swinging his leg over to sit properly forward to stare into those green eyes. The green eyes he didn’t see forever in. 

He’s 16 now, Rantaro was 17. 

“Ouma, you look disgusted.” The photographer called, making Kokichi wince at her voice. “Rest your head against him, it’s not too difficult.” 

He did as he was instructed, lying his heavy head against his shoulder. Feeling his collar bone against his cheek as he puttered out an achy sigh. His heart beat weakly within his brittle ribcage. Pumping slowly, un-willfully, shamefully. He moved again, this time moving to the unwelcoming fabric floor and folding his arms on Rantaro’s knees as the other placed a caring hand on his head.

The theme, loose. Tired, and comforting. 

His body rattled with each breath that echoed in his lungs. Kokichi wondered if this kind of love existed. Or was it only imagined in pictures and forced photography? A career disguising his secret wallowing anguish that came with appealing to the eyes of the followers that saw past him. Hidden under consent he gave with a liar’s smile. 

He was shaken from his echoing thoughts from another begrudged groan that filtered through the air. Another disappointed grunt of held back irritation. “Ouma, the point of this shoot is to relax. If I can tell you’re stiff, the people can tell. So start acting like you’re in love with him.” It was hard to take her advice when he woke up wrong today.

He didn’t come back with a cheeky smile, he nodded and adjusted himself. Letting Rantaro hold him tenderly. He must admit, the taller was a lot more skilled at faking adoration than he was. He was convincing too, which made Kokichi’s chest ache with painful imaginations that eroded his mind with lost hopes and needs.

“Why don’t we just kiss already, hm?” He asked sarcastically, having had a history of talking back, so this wouldn’t result in any penalty of any unspoken rule. “The people already think I’m madly in love with him, they think I’m head over heels for him, so why don’t we just skip to the part where we confirm false suspicion?” He eyed the women who stared at him with eyes of stone.

“It’ll lose its thrill, now take the chair away. I’d like to try a neutral film over the lense.” She brushed him off just like she always had. Kokichi huffed out a fatigued sigh and stepped back when Rantaro let him loose. He felt uncomfortable. Anytime he does a loving couple photoshoot. Rantaro was someone he saw as a close brother. Being so close, and so intimate with him made his fragile skin crawl. 

“Right, because if it’s gay, the people immediately accept it, or deny it.” He deadpanned, watching un-entertained as they dragged the chair away, and were told to do a couple floor positions. “And once denied, it gives more feed to the people who support. More conflict. More offended people on both ends.”

Rantaro gave him a weak smile that used to be strong. “...You know how it is, Ouma.” He said quietly. Tugging down on him softly so he could sit beside him, laying his head down on his lap as he wore a false expression of tenderness. “After I’ll treat us to ice cream, would that makeup for this?” 

Kokichi grimaced at the mention of ice cream. “The idea is sweet,” The camera flashed as they spoke quietly. Having long since mastered the ability to keep their mouth movement limited. “But I’ll pass. I wouldn’t want to spoil lunch.”

It didn’t show on Rantaro’s face, but his eyes shined in knowing worry. “You never cared about spoiling your lunch before.” He noted, shifting so Kokichi had his knees on either sides of his legs, close to his hips as the smaller stared down at him. Flashing more pictures. “You don’t eat anymore.”

Kokichi didn’t have the will to deny it. “Yeah. That’s true.”

Rantaro stared at him for a long moment, but never spoke his concerned thoughts. Good thing too, because Kokichi felt miserable that day. He didn’t feel like dealing with the lightness in his body that should be weighing a bit more. 

* * *

Fingers ran up his spine, feeling every bump his bones created when he left his back hunched forward. This time he’s not so cold. He’s not so chilled and confined by the suffocating air. Those very same hands pulled on his shoulders to get him to straighten his posture. When he did, he heard their  _ ‘tsk’ _ in disapproval.

Their fingers traced that obvious point where his ribs dug out of his torso when he straightened up tall. Each rib was visible, his legs were no better. Nor were his arms and the painfully seeable shoulder blades that were outlined just a bit too much. 

Sharp pains shot up his stomach as the hunger pangs ensued. The growl of his craving body sounded in his ears with an additional wince. The photographer, the woman, his mother, stared at the mirror along with him. Two pairs of unaccepting eyes caught sight of him. Skinny, frail, unhealthy, it’s a wonder why they threw him the shirt. 

He thought he was perfect, he thought he was okay. But as those older searching eyes dug into his frame, he braced himself for another amendment. 

“Your hair color will clash with our next set up, we’ll be dying it black.”

Kokichi swallowed the lump in his throat. 

* * *

He was never beautiful. 

He realized that as he looked at pictures of him when he was young. Ugly, small, useless. All the nights he stood posing in front of the mirror, looking himself over. Checking for flaws, mistakes, blemishes. It had him hating every ounce of skin he left out for the public eye. He felt assaulted with stares, even when his Instagram page blows up every single post, he hates it, he just hates it.

Every new follower, the pictures light up with hearts, light up with comments complimenting his relationship he doesn’t have. Adoring his outfit, his aesthetic, his beauty. He spent nights awake staring at each photo ever posted and got liked. He always ends up dropping his phone off the side of his cold bed because it hurt too much.

No one would ever like a picture of him in normal clothes, in his normal life, with a normal smile. Everyone hates him in reality anyway. Too many nights he lay curled in his bed, massaging his empty stomach, squeezing his eyes shut to the scrapped hollow feeling in his abdomen. He couldn’t stare at himself anymore, not without gazing at how defined his shoulders have gotten. Or how outlined his ribs were. How disgustingly boney he seemed even around his hips. 

Some catastrophic nights he’s sobbing with his chest heaving in pain. His numb lips trembling over words he’s forbidden to say. Tears running jagged down his visible cheekbone where his skin seemed tight around his youthful face. His frigid hands grip his arms as he attempts to steady himself but he can’t and he ends up broken, lying against the frame of his bed, dreading the next time they undress him to mock the unattainable  _ beauty _ they all want.

He doesn’t have it. He doesn’t have that physique they praised him to have.

He’s hideous. 

* * *

His torso had sunken in. The starvation of his body became so apparent and yet when the cameras flash, they praise the plague he’s gotten himself sick with. 

Kokichi was sitting on a stool, his legs rested limply against the cold metal of the seat stained grey. His thighs were thin, and his calves held no muscle. Walking was achy, breathing was strained, his pallid skin was aesthetic, and his body became beautiful.

But it wasn’t, he was a scorned version of society. Putrid apart from his classes he goes to begrudgingly. At school, he’s stared at, but never spoken to. He’s popular across the media, he’s famous in the modeling world. They spread rumors about him, but they don’t matter. Kokichi Ouma is just an enigma, just a face in a picture.

The artist hovered their cold hands over his face. The aesthetic of this shoot had been featuring a broken body. Their excuse had been ‘letting others know it’s okay to show your scars.’ So they peppered the purple and blue bruise colors against his cheek. Surrounding his eyes to make them look swollen. Mocking a punctured lip, and creasing his ribs with red false belt markings.

His back was scattered in lies of pain. Even though just under his skin he was bleeding. He was shaking, trembling because he didn’t want to lie anymore. Yet that’s all he ever knew how to do. Decorate his body to improve his appearance, embellish his flesh in streaks of paint, to curve his looks to attract the eyes of millions.

“Ouma,” The photographer stood over him, where he sat cross-legged against the fabric draped from the ceiling. “Do I need to replace you?” She hovered her eyes over his afflicted body, not oblivious to the stretched skin and muscle grinding themselves to nothing. It was grabbing the attention of the media, ruining her career, molding her to be abusive when she denied it. 

“Replace me?” He whispered, looking up at her. “...You wouldn’t be that merciful.”

She scoffed lightly, turning her head away from his limp body. Falling apart by weakened ligaments and tendons that stretched only so far. This boy was right, she only was threatening him. “Wash off, I expect you home for dinner.” Ignoring his appalled expression, she went to turn away.

“Oh, so I’m your son again, am I? Or are you just giving your client a free meal.”

She ignored his words as if they never rang through the thick air. “I need to talk to you during that meal. You’ve let me down over these several weeks, and I intend on cleaning up this mess.” Kokichi pulled himself to his feet, grimacing at the way the make up over his body made him feel filthy. 

He sighed, the growing tension of hurt soaked his chest in an ongoing throb. “...Right. I’m assuming I’m the mess.” He shook his head, trying so hard to resist the longing to demand fairness for his young and inexperienced life. Which she ran over ruthlessly. “If you wanted to ask me to pick up the slack, eat better, look better, and be better,” he looked at her hollowly. Not an ounce of life haunting his eyes. 

“Then I’m sorry I’m not sorry,  _ I quit _ .” 

* * *

The frail build of his body had gone too far. 

Kokichi swore to himself that he would eat more, even if it burned his tongue and choked his throat every time he tried to swallow. Even if he gagged at the sight of a large meal, and received hammering headaches when he thought about how it would affect his body. What would he gain in mass, or how much weight would his limbs gain? Would he be nourished once again?

He didn’t know it was bad to eat a lot after going so long without food. 

Because the pins and needles of nausea stabbed his stomach after he forcibly took bite after bite of the meal prepared. He broke out in a cold sweat as his body churned painfully, stiff and feeling hot spots all over his chilled porcelain skin. He spent hours on his bathroom floor, begging himself to keep everything down. 

His body hadn’t listened, and his dinner was wasted.

After that point he figured a slow transition was more logical. Even though every time he weighed himself and stared at the crippled body in the mirror, he felt the hard lump in his throat tighten.

He was just so grotesque. The sight of himself made him cry, the feeling of his encased body made him uncomfortable, the stares of everyone murmuring about his health made his mind bleed. He ignored Rantaro’s phone calls, he stopped talking to his old photographer. He started talking back at his teachers, sneering at other students.

And wishing more than anything that he could tear his skin apart and delve a knife into his heart, because he deserved to wipe and smear his face off the earth. 

* * *

Kokichi wandered into the art room after school. He typically had photoshoots to attend and be a victim of, but now he was no longer a part of that cult. He had his mind to confine himself to. Teetering on the edge of sanity and just holding onto the hair of his head to stay attached to this world.

He thought the room would be empty. He always liked the art room because it had big windows and a pretty view of the garden the school kept in poor shape. The withering plants and still surviving flowers were striking, in a way. A beauty of chaos and death, still alluring and enrapturing.

What he hadn’t expected, was to see someone else here. Standing behind an easel, holding a paintbrush delicately between long pale fingers. It was a boy, staring at an empty canvas, eyes narrowed in thought. Peering at blankness with familiarity and wonder. Kokichi found the sight calming, and he didn’t know why.

“...Excuse me,” he spoke, walking over near the boy who he assumed was an artist. “What are you doing?”

The boy seemed startled by his presence. He wiped around, bumping his canvas as he blinked at the sight of him. The boy had sharp almond eyes. Piercing gold hues that shot through Kokichi’s eyes and saw straight into him. The feeling shocked him, resonating around his body as if he encountered an unfamiliar enemy that posed as a friend. When in reality it was a friend disguised through manners as an enemy.

It took a moment for the artist to piece together his words, stabilizing his mind once again. “I- ...I was trying to come up with something to paint.” He admitted, shyly smiling as he glanced at his empty canvas. “...I’ve been a little down today so I wanted to take my mind off of things by painting something pretty.”

Kokichi blinked. What an odd choice in words. He sat on one of the desks next to the open space this boy had his tools set up. He swung his legs back and forth, dangling them off the desk, grimacing at how stick-like he looked. He wondered how this boy perceived him. Though it was strange, the artist hadn’t at all looked at his body like most. Their eyes had connected immediately, nothing else.

“What do you find pretty?” He asked, enjoying the fact that this lonely stranger seemed willing to speak with him. A filthy unsightly model. “Do you paint landscapes? Still life?” He’s been to enough museums to know the different types of basic art forms. 

“...Life drawing.” The boy had said softly. “I… attend classes where I draw people.”

“Like, nude?”

“Yes.”

Kokichi found himself snickering immaturely. Though he quickly hushed himself when he caught the neutral glare of this stranger who he’s interrupted from a delicate train of thought. “...Okay, not funny. I get it.” He sighed. A bit guilty for laughing at someone who painted something normal. “...Why do you paint it? Just curious.”

The boy, who had soft blue hair, and a gentle look about him, seemed deep in thought. “Why do I paint _ it?”  _ He echoed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “As in, why do I paint the human body?” He looked at Kokichi, who after a few moments realized the question wasn't rhetorical. He nodded and the artist sighed. “...Because I find the body beautiful. I can’t explain it any further than having a deep respect for each class, and each model.”

Kokichi observed him as he spoke. So this had nothing to do with premature attraction and using talent developing classes to achieve ulterior motives? Huh. 

“...Guess that answers your first question.” The boy hummed softly. “...I find people pretty. But, ah, I don’t do landscapes well, and still life bore me.”

_ Oh. _ Kokichi sat up straight. This artist had no one to paint. He had nothing to do for hours upon hours. He partook in no sports or had friends he willingly wanted to hang out with. So he let his lips curl into a generously curious smile. “Do you know who I am?” He asked, twirling a finger around a strand of his black hair, that was slowly fading back to purple. 

The artist blinked slowly, letting those sharp golden eyes linger over his face as if to really ponder the question. He shook his head despite his thorough eyes, “No, can’t say I do.”

Kokichi felt a jolt of excitement skid across his chest. Hearing that made half of him feel unimportant, less known, normal, dull individuals. “Good!” He chirped back, shifting uncomfortably where he sat perched on the desk. Even though this territory gave him a thrill, he’s never introduced himself as _ himself _ . He’s so used to being Ouma, that low scaled model that was simply popular across widely used social media. 

“I’m Ouma Kokichi, nice to meet you, artist boy.” He smiled, shrinking in on himself internally. He’s never had someone look at him with such docile eyes. Not looking to expose his flaws and craft them into a whip to bend his already abused body into a slave, all for entertainment. He knew a couple of people who draw, and they all tend to be so reclusive about their work. 

He hoped this perfectly poised boy was just as secretive.

“So,” He continued before the artist could open those pale lips. “Want to paint me? I’m good at staying still, plus I’m bored.”

The boy opened his mouth but closed it as he swallowed the words on his tongue. Finally, for the first time, those gold eyes traveled down. He was looking at his body, Kokichi realized, not surprised in the least. He felt as though he was being evaluated for another shoot. Searching for issues, flaws, and discrepancies. 

He was almost shocked, taken aback when the artist let his eyes drift back up to meet Kokichi’s lavender hues. There was a soft smile on his lips, not judgmental, not displeased. “...Sure, but I can’t guarantee to stand in one place will be any less boring.” He hummed, looking around the room curiously. “Do… you really want to?”

The hope in his voice displayed the fact no one has asked this before. Kokichi shared an equally gentle smile. “Yeah. Where would you like me to be? My beloved- ah,” 

“Saihara, I’m Saihara Shuichi.”

Kokichi hesitated before finishing his sentence, where his mouth was left agape at Shuichi’s willingness to accept the fact he claimed him as his beloved. Typically people find that remark rude. “My beloved Saihara-chan.” He tested, eyeing him. Only to pout when Shuichi hadn’t glared at him for using Chan. 

Shuichi’s calm eyes settled near the window. “...Could you stand by the window? Pose however you like. I’m not picky.” 

Kokichi hopped off the desk, feeling a strange pang of freedom for positioning his limbs however he wished. He still had his light coat on, so he decided if his appearance was all him, he let his light jacket slip off his shoulders and hang around his forearms, draping behind him. As he placed his hands on the low windowsill, his back to the glass. He turned his head to the side, gazing elsewhere as he shifted his weight more against the lip of the sill. He relaxed his body, wearing a neutral expression as he let his eyes wander to Shuichi. “How’s this? Saihara.”

Shuichi looked over his pose. A fond smile gracing his lips as he nodded. “Yes, that’s fine. I can’t help but think you’ve done this before, Ouma-Kun.” He said softly as he gingerly picked up the paint at his fingertips. Squeezing the capsule’s content onto his palette. Gathering colors that fit the tones of Kokichi’s complexion.

“...Perhaps I have.” He murmured. Feeling too relaxed as he heard the subtle sound of the paint running across the canvas. “...Maybe I used to pose a lot. Maybe it was recent. Maybe it wasn’t.” He wasn’t sure why his lips were so loose. Letting all these burning hot words scorch his tongue and leave his lips smoldering at the potential of truth being confirmed. “...Maybe I’m a known dying idol who can’t take it anymore.”

Shuichi kept looking at him, and glancing down again. Trying to recreate the body before him. “...What can’t you take?” he asked, his voice delicate as the refined sound drifted to his ears. “If you were that person, I mean.”

Kokichi felt his head lower, only by a bit. So slight that no one would notice. The weight he’d been carrying around had dampened his smile, his voice, his actions, and all he craved for was that little opening for him to feel sheltered enough to speak his dark thoughts. Or his heavy words. He sputtered out a grief-stricken sigh. “...Maybe I can’t take loneliness.” He muttered. 

His chest tightened and figured Shuichi should talk now because the threat of war between his body and mind was raging inside him.

“If you were an idol, wouldn’t people love you and rush to be there for you? Hypothetically, of course.” Shuichi’s eyes hadn’t looked up to direct the question at him. Just simply focusing on the canvas before him. As if the question was up in the air, carrying no weight, and no meaning.

Kokichi chewed on his cheeks, sucking on his tender flesh as he mulled over how to answer. “No.” he said stiffly. “Because I’d be a model. One in pictures and on media platforms. You know what my hypothetical followers would do? They’d scroll through the page I never set up, like the photos I hated to take. See me as someone who isn’t  _ anyone _ . Just… another face you pass. One you don’t remember well.” He exhaled more harshly than wanted.

He means ‘face’ as appearance. He’s seen for what he isn’t. It hurts because even though he had millions of followers, no one even knew his favorite color, or how many times he wished he could have a treat and his Photographer said he’d get overweight if it became a habit. No one knew how many times he was criticized for being too much, then too little, just never being enough.

Shuichi nodded, letting a small surge of silence wash over them as his eyes trained back onto the slate before him. 

It only made Kokichi feel uncomfortable. He took in a sharp deep breath of the still air. So stagnant and empty. It was good to be still once in a while, but in the darkness of this lit room, he couldn’t help but feel vulnerable. He flinched when Shuichi spoke, suddenly feeling as though he’d be critiqued harshly. 

“It must be hard.” He remarked quietly. Glancing at him again before those golden hues darted down to the painting once more. “To be… so lonely.” 

Kokichi felt his body go rigid at his words. “I’m- _ not _ .” He defended uselessly. “I-,” He sucked in a shallow breath, it must be so painstakingly obvious he’s lying. “I have many friends.” He spat, feeling so offended, and yet feeling as if he deserved the reminder. 

“Which is why you’re here in an art room?” Shuichi asked, still so calm, so poised. Kokichi felt surrounded, even though his attacker held no weapons, and was a one-man army. “...It’s rather boring here for those who don’t take an interest in the arts, so tell me Ouma-Kun, where are your friends?”

Ah. That, in a way, hurt. Kokichi gazed at the smooth tile floors that were inked up with paint smudges. And some faded imprints of a shoe print that might have gotten scuffed up carelessly. “...Okay, you got me.” He huffed, arching his back against the window sill in a weak stretch to seem less awkward. “...You sure are persnickety for a common stranger, you know that?”

Shuichi shrugged lightly. “You offered yourself to be here, I’m not forcing you to stay.” Even though his words could be taken as a rude remark, his voice was still ever so delicate. Kokichi felt a chill wash through his frigid body. A sense that he wasn’t at all in danger. 

“...Shut up.” He muttered softly, having no bite to his words at all. “...tell me, do you…” He wanted so badly to shift topics, yet he didn’t know what to shift off to. His mind raced for attention, and needy wants like a child begging to be held after walking for too long of a distance. In his world, he’d been trudging through sand that burned the pads of his bare feet. Leaving him drained, and so deliriously fatigued. “...think I’m pretty?”

Even though he was so small. Even though his skin pulled against his bones that seemed to creak and echo in his mind like an old barn about to give way. Even if his hair was always messy and left ungroomed. Untucked and never parted in the same place, left between a jet black color dying his ends while at the roots of his head, his purple was slowly coming back. Ugly, untrimmed, hideous looking.

His body was wrong, thin and small, pale and brittle. His young baby face was crude, there was nothing fixable about him, nothing redeemable. Nothing worth a mention. Yet he felt himself desiring the boy before him to admit to finding him appealing. Of course the artist would say yes.

He’s human, his body structure remains similar to most males. The artist, Saihara Shuichi, would undoubtedly admit to finding him pretty. Which is what Kokichi wanted, from a stranger, who knew nothing about him, not even his fame that tortured his limbs, and stretched his fragile white porcelain skin.

He felt as though the air temperature dropped, or maybe the draft in the room just caught wind across his body. Shivers of strict anticipation writhed up his spine, hitting the back of his neck and bleeding into his head from the base of his skull. 

“...ah, I wouldn’t say that.”

Kokichi felt as though a long, sharp spear had been pressing against his chest, and with those words, they finally snapped his brittle ribs and pierced his lung. He tried not to make it seem like the weight of his insecurities struck him with enormous force, but his tongue became dry and his face drained the blood that gave his lips color.

He decidedly forced up a dead laugh. “Oh-ho? S-... Saihara is a picky artist!”

His voice caught like prickers on his name, suddenly snagging his clothes and halting his whole body, in fear of them digging into his supple flesh. A hot wash of frigid burn blew over his shallow cheeks. Making his stomach clench uncomfortably as he tried to remember how to seem normal.

Shuichi paused, stopping his paintbrush to gaze at him. His eyebrows knit in thought. “Oh that’s… not what I meant. I mean, I wouldn’t consider you pretty because there is a much more defined expression that would fit the way you positioned yourself.” His golden eyes still were soft and real. “...charming, maybe. Possibly elegant. Rich in your own way.”

Kokichi couldn’t control the way his jaw fell open at his selective words. “How… poetic, Saihara-Chan. I wonder if you utter the same words to other unsuspecting models. You don’t even know me, yet you chose such words to exaggerate just the way I  _ look _ .” He stared at the one tile again, he knew he sounded rude. Shuichi had every right to insult him if he so desired.

Shuichi hummed instead. “...Not really. There’s a certain art to pulling off a pose. The way you do it makes it appear as though it were second nature. You do make yourself rather beautiful. Your life as a model paid off, has it not?”

Kokichi gave him a narrowed stare. “Saihara-Chan said he didn’t know who I was.”

“I don’t.” He said softly. “But I’ve seen your pictures, it doesn’t mean I know you. As far as my knowledge goes, Ouma-Kun is the allusive internet model. That’s all.”

Kokichi swallowed hard. He’s never had anyone mutter those words to him. He wasn’t sure how it affected him, a skittish cold sting ran up his chest and it left him scattered. He didn’t have anything to say back, not even an unsatisfying pulped answer. Instead, he stood painfully still, hardly breathing at all. 

Shuichi’s eyes were on him, the paint smudges and strokes stopped. Kokichi felt like a terrified animal, a deer in headlights. Frozen in a stilled terror even when the car with the blinding lights has halted. “...You didn’t like hearing that?” He asked innocently as if he was unaware of stealing his expectation and tossing it away so carelessly.

Kokichi shook his head subtly. “I don’t...know.”

“No?”

“I don’t know- I don’t know…” 

Kokichi’s hands gripped the window sill. His pale thin fingers turning a milky white against the pressure. His violet eyes were hard as nonshattering rocks set in the sockets above his colorless cheeks. The emotion was broiling under the surface of his enigma, he’s stifling it, like trying to keep food down, even though it would come back up and leave him disgusted in its wake. 

“...Come here Ouma-Kun.” 

Hearing that velvety tone of soothing calamity left his muscles shot. If he could fight against moving, he would have. But that voice was that of a siren, luring and crafted with each word to sound welcoming. It nauseated him to think a stranger made his knees so weak. Highlighting his heavy need and habit of craving attention. It’s revolting.

“Why?” He asked.

“I finished.”

_ So quickly? _ Kokichi thought skeptically. Slowly reaching to pull his light jacket back over his shoulders, and wringing out the red window sill imprints on his palms. Curiosity was a cold wash of wanting, and he loathed it. Still, he silently went to stand beside Shuichi, just to see how the artist interpreted his appearance. 

When his eyes glazed over the painting, his heart seemed to give out. 

It was impossible to believe Ouma Kokichi stood there within the canvas. As dark and drape as he felt, and acted, his interpretation was done in all light gentle pastel colors. Melting into one another, making his sharp eyes seem gentle and soft. His bone showing arms jutting out were molded into limp and comfortable limbs. Poised so delicately, with a strange tender look in his eyes.

“...You’re blind.” Kokichi whispered. Feeling pained tears rush to brim his eyes. He looked beautiful, not once he could look at himself and see something so glorified and innocent. The classroom wasn’t added in, just the light from behind him gleamed past him and lit up his clothes to complement the contrast of his skin against his dark-colored hair. Even then it still seemed light and warm. “You’re… so blind.”

Rather than insulted, Shuichi laughed faintly. “...If I were to be blind, how would you stand in my painting, done by my hands to mimic your striking pose?” 

Kokichi felt his knees weaken, listening to his milky smooth voice wash over how he found him admiring struck him hard. Shuichi saw him in the light he painted his body in. Nothing like his model pictures, catching him in the raw light of his pure flesh and bone. “Saihara…” He sighed, his voice hushed and quiet.

“I want you to paint me again.”

* * *

They talked.

For a long time.

Kokichi requested that Shuichi give him his number, and his address. The former model would travel to his house on foot, giving him a five-minute time span to think. Within the big blue house on the corner of a rural area, was an art studio that was much more vast than he anticipated. 

_ Come in wearing what you want. _ Shuichi had said. Leaving Kokichi glaring at his unfairly large set of clothing. When he asked the vague boy to be more specific, he only said to wear loose clothes if he so desired. And desirous he was.

Every weekend he’d knock on his door, looking up into the depth of Shuichi’s eyes. He’d jokingly take his hand, asking him if he looked just as charming and elegant as when he first saw him. Shuichi would smile softly every time. Saying words that danced along the lines of ‘ _ the way you appear always strikes me as beautiful _ .’ or, how Kokichi sees it,  _ ‘A rarity swaddled in a mass of self-loathing.’ _

This day churned the same as it would. Kokichi found his way to the art room, Shuichi by his side.

“You seem sad today,” Kokichi noted, gingerly resting his bag on the floor of the tiled room.

Shuichi picked up a new canvas and gently set it on his easel tilted towards the place Kokichi would sit, or stand. According to his choice. “Oh, no, I’m okay.” He said quietly. Taking a different set of colors than what he’s used to. “I’ve just been clouded with thoughts as of late.”

“Ah.” Kokichi looked around his studio, noting a few things have changed. The lights he typically stood in front of or between were left very dim. The drape that Shuichi used as his background was changed from white to black. “I see,” Kokichi slipped off his shoes, peeling off his socks and shucking off his jacket he wore because the weather outside had shifted to frigid winds. Swallowing the area in an early frost.

“Saihara-Chan’s been busy being depressed.”

A brush clattered to the floor, Shuichi stared at it before going to pick it up. 

What was also new, was the worn canvas fabric being stern over paintings around the room, particularly the new ones. Hiding its art beneath something meant to conceal it from curious eyes.

Kokichi sat down. There was nothing placed in the middle of the black drape, dangling from the ceiling. Something he’s familiar with, but here, not so uncomfortable. Usually, there was a box, but Shuichi, ever the elusive and gorgeous artist, had white, and beige colored boxes to match the backdrop. Not black.

Kokichi wore an oversized pure black shirt. His white slim fingertips were the only part of his hand that would show if he left his arms down by his side. Shuichi requested black, so he came in black. With black shorts to match. He got the sense that Shuichi wasn’t feeling up to being peppy, so drab and comfortably moody it was. 

What caught his interest, was the fact that Shuichi had yet to reply, or deny his remark. “...What’s up Saihara?” Kokichi nearly cringed at how smooth and painstakingly worried he sounded. Toned down, vulnerable, chiding like a mother to a sick child. In this case, it’s more intimate than most perceive. 

Shuichi’s golden dull eyes flicker up to meet his soft violets, that glance of guilt was apparent. “...It’s just been a hard week.” He sighed, subtly picking up his dark-colored paints and smearing them onto his pallet. His voice was dampened with an underlining sorrow. Kokichi tilted his head to get a better view of his stiff expression, hiding behind that canvas.

The canvas he usually tilts off to the side. Now it was facing Kokichi, allegedly hiding Shuichi so he wouldn’t be stared at. 

Kokichi never stares while in a pose. What an oddity Shuichi was. “Why’s that?” He prodded, relaxing into a slouched position on the floor, mimicking exhaustion and his genuine lack of energy. 

Only the sound of the vents' gentle coursing air around the room answered. 

“Saihara?”

The boy stroking his image onto a rough surface hadn’t looked up to him. Kokichi felt a familiar twinge in his chest. An indescribable ticklish pain that sputtered up from his stomach to settle across his collar bone. Wreaking small havoc on his sapped heart. He doesn’t feel very nice when he’s ignored. 

He turned his head away from Shuichi. Biting his lip, trying to decide whether or not to just clamp his jaw close, or speak up a little more dignified. He chose the latter, but as he opened his mouth he got a delayed reply. 

“Sorry… sorry. I’m just,” He paused, even his hand stopped along the painting, before dipping it in another color. Dark purple. “...A bit ashamed, because my thoughts are in places they probably shouldn’t be?” That was a question. It sounded like one, at least. It seemed as though Shuichi didn’t agree with what should be popular belief. 

Kokichi left his mouth open. He licked his chapped lips and ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth in thought. “Where are your thoughts, then?” Of course, his own mind developed the worst possible scenario. What if Shuichi was having self-inflicting thoughts? A road he hoped he wasn’t going down.

Shuichi looked from his work to gaze at Kokichi. Who stared back. Kokichi found it interesting that there was definitely a line drawn between a gaze and a stare. A gaze holds meaning behind the eyes it belongs to, while a stare is more vacant, more fixated mindlessly. 

“Lingering on the topic of you.” He said. The meaning of his words carried so much more than it should have. It was more the weight slathered on ‘you’ more than anything else. 

“Why?” The question came out without much thought. Slippery on his tongue and desperate for answers. Why were thoughts about him so bad? So bad that it brought Shuichi shame, that caused his paintings to come out heavy with pain?

“It’s—it’s confusing.” Shuichi shot back, his face turning into one slightly panicked. He probably read Kokichi’s reaction as mildly offended. Or a lotta-offended. “Because, well, it’s—it’s a feeling, and it hurts all the time. Every time I think about you. Since I looked at other photos of you…” he swallowed, nerves choking his words. “...I saw those pictures where they gave you a lot of bruises and it… bothered me.”

Kokichi felt his throat pinch dry. 

“And—I was wondering how they could portray you in such a way?” That unsureness in his voice almost hurt. Kokichi thought he was going to talk more, but he found that the questions in Shuichi’s eyes were now depending on him.

“They weren’t portraying  _ me _ .” He said softly. Trying to relax the strain in those unique golden eyes. “They were using me to portray what they felt, or what the audience wanted to see. Unlike you, who actually cares about my comfort. I was no different from a mannequin meant to be decorated.” Oddly enough, some invisible weight was taken off his chest.

Shuichi still searched him for clarity. “None of that was what you were okay with…?” His confusion made Kokichi want to laugh. How could this idea be so foreign to him? “Hadn’t you signed up to be- ah, decorated? To be posed with, um, Amami Rantaro?” 

Kokichi shook his head. “My mother was the photographer.” He said cooly. “She controlled everything I did. What I ate, when I slept, how many hours I was placed in front of a camera despite how many neck or arm cramps I complained about.” 

Shuichi looked on with a ghost of disgust in his expression. “Don’t… Don’t you still live with her?” 

“Technically. But she’s never home.”

“What about your father?”

“Never met him.”

Ah, there it was. The wash of expected pity. Kokichi can see why people pity it. But it’s not like he met him, and lost him. He never existed in the first place. The hearts of people are only heavy when they miss something good in their lives. In fact, his heart might have been lighter. Had it not been for the very awkward father day elementary school crafts. 

The one kid who raised their hand to confess that they don’t have one, that very sad look in the teacher's eye where they just say ‘make one for your mom then’. That confused look from everyone in the class when they don’t comprehend why he wouldn’t have a father. 

Shuichi blinked it away. The pity was gone. “...I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“That they treated you like that.”

Kokichi sighed, seeing as Shuichi had diverted his attention back to his painting. “Why, though?” his eyebrows met together in wonder. “And that pain? Why?” Shuichi said he felt pain whenever he thought about him. Which was strange enough, because how could pain overwhelm someone with just subtle thoughts?

Shuichi hung his head a little lower. “...I care about you. That’s why.” 

Care shouldn’t carry pain. Kokichi felt his breath hitch as he realized this might not be surface deep. “...How much?” He whispered, his gaze hooking onto the metal rods in the ceiling which held up the black drape. 

“A lot,” Shuichi replied, this time sounding sure of himself. “So much. I think about you all the time. It… It keeps me up at night. Those pictures I end up scrolling through, I just get frustrated. Because you never look happy.” His voice shook over ‘happy’. “I just want to repaint it.” he huffed, “All of it. I wish those pictures never existed, and that look of  _ misery _ could be gone.” 

_ Misery. _ Kokichi had to do a double-take. He sped through the images in his mind, and not once did he think he looked miserable. But he did feel it, and it was a shock to him that Shuichi was able to pick up on that through inanimate photos. 

“So you like me.” He said stiffly. A wash of numbness bled through his face and spread to his fingertips. That feeling of disgust is what his bones were crafted out of. If this went down the path he’s notably falling in, then it wasn’t going to be forgiving.

“...yes,” Shuichi said quietly. His lips met to close firmly. Regret and shame flooded his eyes once more and Kokichi could see he wasn’t the only one looking at that path and dreading it. Yet somehow, cruelly longing for it. “...I’m so helpless.” He muttered. “It’s not something I want either, but I wish I had it.” His voice was slowly becoming more strained. “By  _ it _ I mean you.”

Kokichi felt frozen in place. Struck by invisible ice that locked his body where he sat. “...How?” Kokichi fumbled over the simple word. Squeezing it past his lips to dissipate into the ears of his company. 

“I...I wish I knew.” Shuichi narrowed his eyes to the painting of Kokichi. Focused, and laboring for words. “...I find talking to you so easy. You’re so natural to paint… I can’t stop wanting to hear you laugh, or seeing a true smile. I enjoy listening to you talk for hours, even if it’s about nothing at all. I don’t feel giddy. I feel at peace with you.” 

The thought stumped him. Those who listen to his long, and rambling talks about the most useless thing in the world, are those who aren’t actually listening. He assumed Shuichi was the same way. Not hearing his words like everyone else. But there were moments where the artist would add his input, catching Kokichi off-guard when he realized he was listening the whole time.

“J-Just…” Shuichi jerked his head away from Kokichi to stare at his paints. “...Just tell me you don’t feel the same… So I can work on piecing myself back together again.” There was a lot of anguish and pain in his tone. The same longing Kokichi kept trapped in his heart. It churned uneasily in his chest as he dropped his eyes from the ceiling to face Shuichi once again.

He hummed loudly as if to think about it. “I don’t know, Saihara-Chan.” He sighed, ignoring his own painful hesitation that was trying to yank him in the opposite direction. Trying to run as far away to avoid inevitable fate. “...Typically people don’t like liars.”

This got those golden eyes back on him. Struck with wavering curiosity. And dying hope. “What—What are you talking about?” Such an innocent stammer, Kokichi wonders if he truly is this oblivious. But then again, it took himself this long to realize it himself.

“Since you love liars so much, I’ll give you one more lie, that is completely false.” As much of a coward he is, his moment of faintheartedness is shining. He didn’t look for their eyes to meet, instead, he stared passed him to make it bearable. He can’t handle soft and sensitive words. Maybe if he tried, but his lips felt numb and would break fragile intimate words. 

“I  _ hate _ you.”

Shuichi notably flinched. His paintbrush was gingerly set down with his shaking fingers. Kokichi thought he was offended, and suddenly his entire mind took him by the throat and squeezed. He shouldn’t have lied. Not about that. Panic set into his veins, and he was about to joke about loving him to death when Shuichi’s laugh stole his words.

Shuichi laughed, only lightly. His eyes were shining with tears, but he still laughed. A grateful, relieved laugh bubbling from his lips, causing his shoulders to tremble. He wiped his eyes as the happy smile was left awkwardly cracked across his lips. “Y-You said that with such conviction…”

Kokichi nodded. Not much else he wished to say. Well, to Shuichi anyway. His throat felt tight, and the skin around his ribs seemed to pull uncomfortably. As if his body was punishing him for his confession, by reminding him of the creature that hid under his clothes. 

The laughter died. Silence followed in a chorus of ringing air particles screaming in his ears. 

“Ouma-Kun…”

That was his name, and yet it sounded like it had been called from another room. His palms felt sweaty, his pearly white complexion jumped a tone lighter. Pale, nervous, only because Shuichi was in fact all he desired.

Enthralling beauty that captured his frail and unappealing body, and handcrafted it into someone he considered  _ beautiful _ . The thought sent tremors down his spine, turning his blood cold as his skin burned. 

“...Come here.”

He didn’t want to come. “Why?”

Once again, Shuichi gave him such a tender gaze. “I finished.”

Kokichi felt his thin legs tremble slightly as he stood himself up. Like before, drawing nearer to Shuichi was like returning to the arms of people who swear they won’t hurt you, then strike you the moment they have you clenched in their hands. Except instead of physical violence, Kokichi was getting nearer to someone who was in love with him. 

Who would no doubt swear love to him. Promising happiness that won't come to fruition. The love between young hearts is frail and easily broken. Both of them don’t know what true love is. This is just a feeling that cursed their hearts and squeezed strained blood into their veins, longing for the other to give up special attention. It won’t last, it just won’t last.

Shuichi outstretched a hand for him to take.

Kokichi wanted to take it, and foolishly, he did. 

How come he refused to rip from him when Shuichi pulled him in closer? He might never know, but when those paint smudged hands squeezed his fingers, and his back was to his chest, Shuichi’s head was beside his own. Kokichi felt trapped in a snare. His violet eyes locked onto the canvas. His jaw dropped to the surprise of none.

The edges of the canvas were left white, as it suddenly shifted to jagged blackness in the center. Crimson and unappealing colors were splattered along the area where the black drape was. Yet, in the center, where Kokichi was painted, he sat perfectly poised. Somehow the blackness of his shirt and shorts were calm, unlike the chaotic black around him. His skin was untainted, clear, no blemishes stained the pearly white surface of his complexion. 

“...W-What is this?” Kokichi spat. Tearing his eyes from the cruel beauty Shuichi once again painted him in. Even filled with pain, and clashing emotions, Kokichi sat unperturbed by it all. The calmness in the storm, the shot taken in the dark that hit dead center. “I...I hate it…” He whispered weakly.

“...Why?” Shuichi asked, completely still, and serene as ever. “...Is it because you don’t like seeing yourself the way I see you?”

Kokichi nodded. Not bothering to conceal that truth in a complicated lie. “...I-I can’t possibly look like that!” He retorted, his face growing red with the heat of sudden anger. “You paint me like you’re lost in your own fantasy! That isn’t me, I’m not some human being meant to be like- like that!”

With a stiff hand he gestured in a jerkish motion towards the gorgeous painting. Kokichi hung his head low, wishing he wasn’t here, within his firm and steady arms. “...I’m in love with you.” Shuichi whispered softly. Hugging Kokichi from behind, clinging to him gently. 

Kokichi shook his head. “...Y-You can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“I’m—I’m hideous…! Thin, brittle, i-impossibly  _ weak. _ ”

“I don’t think you are.”

Kokichi wanted to pry his hands off. But they left from around his arms and curled around his waist. Where his ribs were still so visible, where his nutrition was nearly depleted, how could Shuichi find his young shallow face and body, so natural to paint. Kokichi even asked for him to paint him more. And more. And he kept coming each time Shuichi was free. Each time Shuichi asked if he wished to come over.

Yes. The answer was always yes.

“...What are you going to do to me?” Kokichi whispered. Leaning his aching head back so he rested against his shoulder. Tired, sore, wishing he wasn’t so suddenly cold, and hungry. 

Shuichi exhaled slowly. “...Help you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** More discussion about eating disorders. If this triggers you I wouldn't suggest reading it. There is mention of Kokichi getting sexualized for being a model. Lots of emotional baggage, proceed if this doesn't bother you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “ He never had to repeat the words “I love you” for me to know he did. ”

Warm tipped fingers pressed against his shoulders and circled his shoulder blades. Running over his cold skin as they rubbed back and forth over his trapezius muscle. The achy spot that ran from his neck to his small shoulders. Gentle welcoming hands kneaded down his back and rolled over the bones running down his spine.

“...Are all artists this meticulous?” Kokichi softly whispered. Inhaling through his nose and exhaling slowly, clear air rushing past his lips. His head felt light, with his body being massaged so thoroughly, it was difficult not to feel so pulled apart.

Strand by strand, he pictured each limb having delicate fingers strip away the stiffness and sore aches that were imbedded into his ligaments. Kokichi swears the hands at work were kissed with the porcelain lips of an angel, because he melted into the palms that firmly squeezed against his upper back.

“Meticulous?” Shuichi repeated, his voice still as light. “...Experienced ones, maybe. But I would consider this more thorough and attentive.” 

Kokichi sighed once more. He’s never ventured outside Shuichi’s art studio, therefore he’s never gotten to lay his eyes on his home and living space. Perhaps maybe from the front door, but never beyond that. After Shuichi spilled out a confession, he felt comfortable with having Kokichi over more often. Not just for poses.

They were on the floor of Shuichi’s living room. The dim room was roomy and felt very open. With tall glass windows on either side of glass doors that lead to a roofed porch. On this particular day, it was pouring. Rain constantly struck the wooden roof of the porch and echoed throughout the house.

Kokichi let his eyes drift close. He leaned against the coffee table, it’s frame was white wood, with the top being glass. All to match the bright airy living room, that looked more grey and tiresome with the cloudy day. The large screened tv they faced was off, leaving a vacant black reflection of themselves to be stared at.

The tv was mounted on the wall above the real fireplace. Which Kokichi found calming. Ash and coals that had chard wood sitting with the light-colored stones. Shaped perfectly to curve upward to the ceiling. The glass doors were to their left, while behind them was the large sectional couch. 

Darkened light came through the glass in the doors, adding to the lazy mood Kokichi found himself melting in. “...Hm. I guess you’re right.” He muttered, grimacing as Shuichi hit a spot on his tight neck that had yet to be liberated of it’s knotted stitch. 

He came in today to just hang out, but when he stretched with a groan of displeasure, Shuichi offered to help ease his shoulder pains. All to make the body he feels suffocated in a bit easier to live with.

His warm hands pushed circles into his back, then pressed his thumbs down his spine. Alternating between his left and right hand as he kneaded the achy muscles down Kokichi’s back. “...Do you enjoy doing this?” Kokichi asked quietly, leaning forward so his chin rested on the glass top of the coffee table. He kept his arms loose by his side so Shuichi could work at his shoulders with ease.

Shuichi hummed, tracing his tender fingers lightly over his defined shoulder blades. With two hands, he pressed a palm over the back of his shoulder, and his fingers massaged the area where he felt the stiff muscle tightening under his fingers, making Kokichi’s skin tougher than it was. 

“Yeah, it feels nice.” Kokichi came in wearing an untucked button-up, he just unbuttoned the few top buttons and let his shirt fall around his shoulders. All so Shuichi could work at the sore spots better. “...Massaging people is like playing with hard clay. Except you’re warmer and don’t mold eventually.”

Huh. Kokichi never made that connection before, he vaguely remembered playing with clay when he was younger but never after that. “So you’ve massaged other people before?” Kokichi questioned with a huff. “...Now I don’t feel special anymore.” 

“Oh, but, no one ever… undid their shirt before.”

“Hm. Would you like me to button back up again?”

“No, no… it’s fine. I was just saying you’re still special.”

Before Kokichi could reply lazily, he winced as his stomach squeezed uncomfortably. Eliciting a growl to churn stiffly in his abdomen. The warm palms pressing against his back paused, much to Kokichi’s dislike. Downtrodden by the sharp pull of his hunger, he shifted so he looked back to see Shuichi’s expression. All to find him puzzled.

His hands slid from his back, and Kokichi sighed in disappointment. Taking that as a ‘ _we’re done_ ’, he pulled his shirt back up and slowly took his buttons and fiddled with them to get them through the little slits. “You’re hungry.” Shuichi quietly noted, “Want me to get something for you to eat?”

Kokichi grimaced. He should place an edible item in his mouth, and chew it till it tastes like sand. Then he could work on swallowing it bit by bit so it doesn’t remind him of the chalky substance he used to eat before he stopped working as a model. Cheap granola bars and maybe a pack of M&Ms if his photographer didn’t notice. “...I’m, actually not hungry.” He lied, turning his back to the foggy glass windows and doors. His stomach gurgled despite his words. Clenching his muscles in another tug. Silently begging for something to digest. 

Shuichi didn’t look at him with a hint of disapproval. Instead, he glanced at the watch around his wrist and tapped it to show Kokichi the time. “...You’ve been here since this morning. We didn’t have breakfast, and it’s almost lunch now. I can make us sandwiches if you like?”

Kokichi shook his head, if Shuichi was going to gently prod him, then he could easily deflect. “...eating makes me nauseous.” He simply stated, his voice quiet and still tired from not getting much sleep last night. It wasn’t a lie. When he fills his need to eat, he tends to be found in a bathroom roughly an hour later. Aching in sharp pains until he retches, and in disgust, his body rejects the food he gave himself. 

A slow transition didn’t work. He ate small amounts of food, and he still waded in high strung discomfort. 

“Ouma?” Kokichi stopped paying attention to Shuichi. His violet, lavender eyes drifted away so he wouldn’t have to have his eyes focus on the sound of his velvety smooth voice. Still so welcoming, still so warm. He wished his palms were against his bareback again, just to knead comfort into the rigidly putrid cage he’s trapped in.

Shuichi gently brought his fingers to rest on his shoulder. “Ouma,” He repeated. “When’s the last time you ate?”

* * *

Kokichi was seated at a cafe table. A moderate-sized cup of coffee sat steaming before him. It’s wide filled cup could capture his reflection if he leaned over. Untouched, not rippling with slight movement. It was hot and tempting to drink. Yet he still sat there, with empty curiosity as he took a sugar cube and delicately placed it on the surface of the coffee.

The light brown latte seeped into the sugar cube. Still holding it, hardly touching the beverage. He watched it climb up the sugar and dye it brown. Before letting go to watch it sink and dissolve.

“I did say you didn’t have to buy anything.”

Kokichi had his elbow on the table, his hand cradling his head as he played with his latte. He glanced at Rantaro, just sitting down with his tea and dropping one sugar cube into it. Leaving Kokichi to sigh as he stretched back to slunk in his seat.

“You did.” He confirmed, his eyes wading in uncertainty and devoid of interest. “But I bought something anyway.”

“Just to play with it?” Rantaro asked, reaching over to take his coffee, that he doesn’t even like, and taking a generous sip of it. Kokichi didn’t mind. He watched him smack his lips and set the latte back on the doily in front of him. 

“What if I told you I spit in that while you went to get tea?” He tried, throwing out anything to give Rantaro a pitifully weak reason to not say whatever he intended on saying. Uneventfully, Rantaro only licked his lips and smiled.

“Then your spit doesn’t deter the taste of a good latte.” He replied easily. Reaching for his tea and bringing the porcelain teacup to his lips. Slowly savoring a long drink much to the anticipation of Kokichi. Who looked on with bored eyes. Not so patiently waiting for him, knowing he was delaying this purposely just to make him seem guiltier.

Rantaro let loose a satisfied ‘ah’ sigh. Setting his tea back down and leaning forward to set both his elbows on the table. His fingers that were decorated in rings were weaved together, he set his chin on his intertwined hands and narrowed his green cunning eyes. With a wide smile, even showing his pearly white teeth, he caught Kokichi’s stare. “I don’t like my calls going ignored.”

Kokichi grimaced at how he said that with a grin causing dimples in his perfect skin. He replied with a lazy scoff. “Uh-huh. Well, I watched those calls ring, hot-shot.” To break eye contact, he nonchalantly reached for his coffee. A coffee he doesn’t like and makes his tongue real back in disgust. But Rantaro got to it first and slid it out of his reach.

He despised that knowing look in his eyes. “If you don’t have time for me, then obviously you have someone more important.” He tapped his chin with a decorated finger, still smirking. With one eyebrow raised, he was expecting Kokichi to answer.

He instead huffed, reaching forward to snag Rantaro’s tea. Something he’d much prefer drinking as he muttered, “Oh get over yourself.” He spat with little bite to his words. He took a small drink of the beverage and held the taste on his tongue. He swallowed with hesitance, noticing Rantaro’s gaze hadn’t shifted.

“Not going to tell me who you’re seeing?”

“Not seeing anyone.”

His gaze fell flat. “You’re lying days are dwindling, my friend.”

Kokichi set the drink back onto the table. Suddenly deciding he didn’t like green tea. “...I don’t have to tell you if I don’t wish to.” He’s apprehensive. If Rantaro gets himself involved, then half the world will know. “Attached to you is a thousand eyes. So I’d rather not have you with me.” The lowly perks of being best friends with a model.

“Like you aren’t any different?” Hm. Rantaro seemed dejected by that. “I’ve been with you, for what? Your whole life? And you aren’t going to tell me who is—”

“Torturing me? Making me think I actually deserve to be resurrected?” His hard eyes narrowed. His hands left to grip the table uncomfortably. He knew Rantaro would do nothing but try and weed his way in his life. 

“You aren’t dead, Ouma.” Rantaro sighed.

“Uh-huh.” He crossed his arms and turned his head away from him. “Well whatever that used to live inside me has been rotting for years.” His words were churning slowly with a trace of bitterness to his responses. He doesn’t mean to sound so stiff and sour towards Rantaro. Since he was only ever doing what he’s best at. Which was being there for him.

“That’s another thing I wanted to bring up,” Rantaro’s playful eyes were sapped of all joy. “You aren’t okay, Kokichi.”

He winced. Discomfort rushing to bleed into his expression as he dropped his eyes to stare pale-faced at the drinks. “...Can I just say _I’m fine_ and pretend that you just nodded your head and moved on with your life?” He peered at Rantaro, feeling as if the other could see through his clothes and analyze his brittle, fracturable body.

An exhale of heavy breath was dragged from the other's lips. “I’m not one to do that.”

“I know.” And Kokichi hated that. 

“So can you let me help you?”

Not even two beats of a second flew by. 

“No.”

* * *

He can’t be helped. Not even with the willing, vulnerable look in those pallid seeable eyes. Golden hues bore into him as no other had viewed him. Making his blood run cold, and his teeth to grit, disturbed by the image of Shuichi’s eyes seeing his everything. Painfully, he kept his weighted mind away from such imaginations as he felt that gentle tug on his shoulder.

Kokichi didn’t answer his question. His teeth, that in some parts were slightly crooked, sunk into his bottom lip as he kept his stare downward. Digging into the chilled wooden floor, that was felt in his knees and the tips of his fingers. 

Shuichi no longer opened his mouth to prod. He encouraged him to face him, in that Kokichi let him be curved towards where his tender hands led. The taller leaned against the front of the couch, prompting the other to inch closer, so he was within the grasp of his hands. 

“You missed some buttons…” He murmured faintly, gently pulling on his collar. His fingertips brushed along his uncovered neck, delivering rushing chills to his chest. It was a pulse of longing, Kokichi swallowed the want to be held. Cradled like a begging child, sickeningly so, he desires that fantasy to come to light.

Shuichi’s fingers belonged to that of someone who was meant to craft. Nimble, and knowing. Well-aware of what they can do, and how to manipulate what’s before him. Unlike Kokichi’s trembling cold fingers, that fumbled and struggled with pulling each button through its respective slit.

Those observant golden eyes glided down his shirt. Taking note of each stitch, and each pattern where it held together the thin fabric. “...some are buttoned wrong.” He said after a moment of staring at the off-centered clothing.

Kokichi sighed, holding his breath had done nothing but color his face pale. “...Guess you’ll have to just unbutton it then, and start over.” He tilted his head as he felt Shuichi’s steady hands traveled up, not lingering before going to undo the top buttons below his chin. With the supportive rumble of rain still caressing the moment, Kokichi felt movie-worthy. But only for a moment.

“...You don’t mind me doing this?” Shuichi asked, a bit late since halfway down the buttons he was questioning it now. 

Kokichi hummed, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief instant. “...Mm, no, not at all.” He enjoyed the tender offer to do something so small as buttoning his shirt for him. Even when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. “...You respect me too much, you know that?”

Respective of him, and what he’s held inside of. Even when his chest and torso were visible, Shuichi wasn’t looking. Instead, he kept relaxed, his eyes trained on the buttons. Kokichi wasn’t sure how he evaded distractions. Well, he supposed he does. Life drawing artists tend to be more used to this, don’t they?

“I respect you just enough,” Shuichi replied, finishing his shirt, and finally reaching around Kokichi’s face to fold down his collar. “Just as everyone should be respected.”

Kokichi couldn’t swallow the choked laugh that writhed up his throat. “Yeah, well, respect is just a formal version of admiration.” He sat back, more inclined to lean against the coffee table. He enjoyed personal space, leaving him decisive between liking it when Shuichi was near, or not. Typically he’d rather avoid others touching him because of his discomfort spiking easily.

Except no one can usually tell when he wishes to be left alone. Since unlike most people, he doesn’t flinch or freeze up with pins and needles. He remains as he always is, just inside his mind, he’s silently begging his company to please keep their hands away from him. If he says the wish out loud, they could potentially use that against him.

How so? Kokichi can think of ways. Ways that people find more humorous rather than manipulative. Because contrary to books and movies, not everyone is an undermined evil villain. Although through the eyes of the person who's been victimized at least once, it may appear that way. 

“You lose respect.” Kokichi continued softly. Not feeling the energy to liven up his words. The echo of the rain set the mood to appear rather depressing. The dimness with the lights did ease his headache he walked in with. So he couldn’t complain. “All through losing your admiration for someone.” He sighed, his lips still relaxed in a frown. 

He stared at Shuichi. Waiting for him to lash back with a rebuttal he won’t care for. Yet all he did was wait patiently. Not evading his eyes from Kokichi’s, just limply resting against the couch, laying his head back on the cushion a bit, not at all uncomfortable. Kokichi was the first to avert his eyes. 

“Why do you admire me?” He asked, staring at the glass doors to his side. Getting sidetracked while watching the droplets on the surface slid into bigger water drops, and falling down the glass door. “Before, once, you said you respect your classes and each model.” On the day he stumbled upon him. He can distinctly recall he said that. 

Shuichi’s eyes moved away from his stare, so he could think without having his company seeking his audience. Kokichi noticed the artist absentmindedly gnawed on his cheeks as he thought. Much like Kokichi would chew on his thumbnail. At the thought, he glanced at his thumbs. Red and bitten at. If he did it recently, he didn’t notice.

“Is it really just admiration?”

Kokichi moved his head to look back at Shuichi. “What else would it be? Pride? Approval? It's all leaning to that, so yes, admiration.” He narrowed his purple eyes. He was glad Shuichi was easily sidetracked. Otherwise, he would be awkwardly sat in his kitchen, trying to figure out if he should confess to what makes his skin crawl, or trying to conjure another fib to let him wiggle free once more.

“So?” He prompted. “Do you admire how I look? Because that’s pretty shallow if that’s the case.”

Shuichi blinked at him. Thoughts turning in his mind to fight for the correct response. Since Kokichi could see it, the disagreement in his eyes, but the lack of better words on his tongue. Which, was the base of all Shuichi’s hindrance. He had good thoughts, but if he spoke on the fly he wouldn’t convey what he truly means. 

Which was what Kokichi admired. He respected his slow response time because, at the end of it all, he gets something well crafted and thought out. 

“I… don’t think it’s that. Respect, I mean.” His expression almost looked pained. On the fence between hard thinking and bordering confusion. “...But I do respect you because I believe there are types of respect. Since I respect my parents, I don’t admire them. I respect people, and again, I don’t admire them.”

Hm. Point taken. Kokichi had to rethink the thought process he’s had for a couple of years now. “Okay…” He huffed, disliking how Shuichi caught him wrong once again. “Then explain to me how that works. Because in my world everything's about admiration.” In his world, to chip away at yourself was respect earning. 

Smiles, handshaking, compliments. All respect from adults who enjoyed taking photos of him, and not caring about how he felt. Since growing up, he was respected, his body was respected. Which is why they violated him so badly. They wanted to show him _just how deep_ their respect ran. 

The thought disgusted him. 

Shuichi opened his mouth to reply softly. His golden eyes still soft around the edges, and his hands folded politely in his lap. With his legs stretched out in front of him, and his sock-covered feet were beside Kokichi as he sat leaned up against the glass coffee table.

“Respect in my eyes is… treating others with deserved regard because they are human, and by all means, should be treated like they’re worth kindness.” His words were quiet but were spoken with meaning. Shuichi’s soft eyes hardened up a bit, but only by a bit. “Everyone should be treated like they have feelings, even if they don’t show them.”

Kokichi let his lips part slightly, wishing to speak, but the words died encased between his clamped teeth. Because he didn’t know what to say. His world just… _never_ worked like that. Respect is earned, respect comes when someone possesses talent or abilities nobody commonly has. Kokichi once had admired beauty, or, at least he was under that impression.

“People aren’t toys.” Shuichi continued, “Not objects to be touched or decorated without them being okay with it. It’s… cruel to just do as one pleases just because they believe that for some reason that they are better. And that the others don’t deserve rights.” He breathed, his face slightly red from saying it all in one rushed breath.

Kokichi could sense experience within his passionate words. The untold story of being taken advantage of. The unspoken words that describe horror stories of being treated like he was less than human. He didn’t ask. He didn’t prod. If Shuichi went through that, then he’d leave his trauma where he suspected it lay.

“...Okay. I get it.” Kokichi admitted, finding that explanation easier to get his head around. That’s why Shuichi didn’t enjoy it when Kokichi snickered at him for painting nude models. Because Shuichi respects them and treats them like the humans they are. He realized that’s how Shuichi painted everyone, he painted them human. In all their beautiful raw flaws. 

Shuichi reached forward slowly. Gently slipping his hands into one of Kokichi’s palms. Subtly, and ever so delicately squeezing his fingers around his hand. He pulled lightly, standing up slowly, silently encouraging Kokichi to get up with him. 

“What?” He asked, with a wince of agitation, he stood on his legs. Finding the joints in his knees crack and complain about a light throb. Shuichi just looked at him, with his eyes boring some form of discomfort. Some type of pain Kokichi was unfamiliar with. “What are we doing?” He sounded threatened, when all Shuichi did was take his hand wordlessly and try to lead him somewhere.

“I thought maybe you were hungry?” He said, his voice was so _sweet_. Dripping with care and wanting to see him get better. Kokichi felt the twist in his stomach at the thought of getting something in his mouth. The last time he tried to get food in, he ended up staring at the plate after the first bite. His thoughts turned toxic and a hand clasped over his mouth as nausea curdled at the back of his throat.

“...I’m not.” He lied softly. It was a half-truth. “I’d rather not eat anything, Saihara-Chan…” 

Shuichi looked at him, his expression pinched in a way that made it look like he was lightly recoiling from something disgusting. But he knows it’s only the sour look of pity. “Okay.” He sighed, but still walked him into the kitchen. Kokichi walked a step behind him, his hand pulled forward. While Shuichi’s hand was pulled back.

Kokichi has been to the kitchen before. Another nearly white room. With airy spacing and windows full of rain and sad cloudy skies. Shuichi let go of his hand and pulled back a tall chair in front of the counter. “...Sit. I want to talk to you more.” 

Kokichi watched as he went to the wall where a large clipboard was there leaning against the white painted wall. Still looking grey with the lack of lighting and rain storm coaxing the mood to fall a bit flat. He sat down, pulling his knees to his chest and folding his arms around to hug his legs. Still so thin, so snappable.

Shuichi talks easiest when he draws. Since he’s in his element, in his own specially crafted world. That strong, full-body settled across the counter, sitting positioned to look past the spot next to Kokichi. When his eyes were directly on him. “Mind if I draw you?” 

Kokichi chuckled weakly. Every time Shuichi asked, with that meaningful look in his eyes. “...Sure, Saihara. Though I won’t pose so flatteringly.” he kept his knees safely to his chest. “I only do that when I’m before a canvas.” Shuichi’s canvas was glimpsing into the world of Saihara, for just a picture. Just to see how he viewed him. And it was something he cherished.

“That’s fine.” Shuichi smiled lightly. Propping his large clipboard upon his knees, one hand holding the top of it still, while his dusty fingers held a piece of charcoal. “It’s only going to be a sketch.” From where Kokichi could see, he had a side view of his work as he made a loose line placing where his head was. “...You’d still look just as elegant and charming, no matter what pose you’re in.”

Kokichi shook his head slightly with a stifled sigh. “Ah… Saihara-Chan is such a flirt. I can’t help but think you’re buttering up to me. What did you want to talk to me about?” Something on the self-care he struggles in. Most likely. Shuichi is very cautious about his words, so chances are he'll be careful with those fragile words.

Because they could easily fracture and shatter as they fit inside his ears. Reverting into his brain and begging his subconscious to go back to sending up walls. But that should be an old habit. So he ignored it. 

“I… I just want to understand where you’re coming from,” Shuichi said smoothly. His voice milky and warm as it soaks the air with a relaxant Kokichi had been waiting for. Though, he felt tense, ready for the catch to it. The onslaught of piercing words that would stab his lungs and tear his breath away. “So is it…” Shuichi made natural strokes with his hand, contemplating his delivery.

“No,” Kokichi said resolutely. 

Shuichi gave him a skeptical look. “I hadn’t finished yet.”

“I know.” Kokichi fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves as he grimaced. “You were going to ask if it was anorexia. Right?” 

The artist didn’t halt his hands along with the black and white drawing. His eyes followed every line he made, and when he glanced back at Kokichi, he seemed neutral. The fact that he couldn't read his expression was almost scary. “Yes. I… was. If it’s not that, then is it—”

“No, no it isn’t.”

Again, Shuichi’s eyes gave off a flat-lined emotion as he wordlessly berated him gently for cutting him off again. “Not Bulimia?”

“...No.” Kokichi felt the uncomfortable ice chills roll over his skin that rested too close to the bone. “I know I don’t eat. I’m in a… bad position to not look guilty of it.” He ran a hand through his unbrushed hair. Nervously running his teeth over his bottom lip. His thumb found its way between his teeth. Teeth marks were already dug into his thumb, and he added to it by nibbling comfortingly at his worn skin.

“...I’m a model.” He sighed. “Or, was. Of course, I’m the perfect candidate to hate the way I look, and develop eating issues, and want to make myself look good.” It was so much more than that, and keeping it locked behind his red lips to rot his brain would do nothing. “I do starve myself. I do throw up after I eat, but it’s not- It’s not _that_.”

Shuichi didn’t jerk his head up at attention. He just listened, and that little act of kindness to Kokichi, it ached his chest and pulled at his gut in a way that made him feel a little free. Where he doesn’t have to guard his words and hold them in his trembling hands, terrified of having someone like an adult grab him and force him to go on a proper diet. 

“...I don’t want to.” He muttered, the hand that had swiped through his hair grabbed his unruly locks and pulled at his scalp. “...I get so worked up over how I just feel so _gross_. I want to be pretty, I don’t want to look so dead.” His voice started hardening, and his throat felt tighter the harsher he seemed. “But I can’t stop feeling so nauseous after. I can’t stop that awful, upsetting feeling that makes me feel so dizzy and _sick_.” 

Just talking about it made his abdomen clench uncomfortably. His knees still securely protected against his aching chest. The only thing holding himself together. “If—If I had to choose between that _feeling,_ and suffering from the jabbing hunger pangs, I’d rather just starve.” 

Every time he said that word. That word _starved_. The image of a Halloween pumpkin comes into his mind. Because when he was little, he used to be so excited to take the dull knife and stab the pumpkin to cut off it’s top. And delve his hands into the guts and pull out clump by clump the innards of it. By the end, he’d take a teeth shaped tool to drag it along the inside. _Scrapping_ the inside hard to make sure it was all cleaned out.

Every time his stomach pinched and gurgled, groaning for something to take in, it reminded him of the painfully hollow rigid sound that came with carving a pumpkin clean out. His expression looked angry as the prickling tears scorched his eyes. Half covered with a hand that had let go of his hair to cover his face as he processed the raging fire beneath his ribcage.

“Could you…” Shuichi started, still patiently listening to him. Not even looking at him. Kokichi was thankful for because he looked ugly in the pre-stages before crying. “...help me understand that feeling you’re feeling?” 

Kokichi’s jaw dropped open to start but realized it was much harder than first perceived. “Hell?” He tried, scoffing weakly at himself for lack of better words. There were so many words to describe mental agony. Or was it more emotional? Might as well be both because he’s confused enough as it is. 

“Pain…” He settled on. “...Just, a lot of pain.” Of course, there had to be more. Because any issue could be painful. “...My mom always used to stand over me. Watching what I did, and more importantly what I ate. I always liked treats but I still freeze up when I reach for something sweet. She told me I wouldn’t look good, always making me fast for a day after I had _ice cream_.”

She would comment on how his hair was stupid. His usual cloth preference was hideous. His skin tone was too light. The way he wore makeup was wrong, as little as he put on. “...I feel so uncomfortable. Like—like I’m being watched so intently. I ate something last week, I held it down but I hid under a damn _table_ while I ate.”

His nerves jerk under his skin so violently and it shocks down to his stomach which jumps up into his throat. “I’m scared. Of—Of being ridiculed.” His voice shook.

Big surprise, Ouma Kokichi has jittery, fragile anxiety. That bolts at a moment's notice. He slowly let his knees fall away from his aching chest. His hands came together to squeeze his fingers as he leaned on the table. “...So please don’t make me eat anything. If you ask me, I might. But I _really_ don’t want to.”

Was he begging? Kokichi felt his body contract at the thought. Every muscle tightening, squeezing and pulling against the realization. His hands had met in a way where his fingers were between each other. His weaved together hands were against his forehead with his elbows on the table. 

His burning eyes shook with tears but none fell. It hurt to bear his inside. Especially since an artist was capturing this very moment in his eyes, in his world. Listening to his strained words and edging them into each line created. 

“...I won’t make you eat anything if you don’t want to.” Shuichi had sighed. His black fingers setting aside the charcoal on his white granite counter. “...I don't like that your mom coaxed you into thinking that eating was awful, and you can’t help that you are scared of getting some sort of punishment for it.” His golden eyes now burdened an ocean of hurt.

“But,” Shuichi said, making Kokichi shrink back. What was the catch? Must there be that hitch to a frozen breath? A trembling shake to hands that hit the pavement too hard? Kokichi swallows the spit on his tongue. He supposed that, yes, there had to be. “If you stop eating, you’ll starve, and I personally don’t want to see you only in my paintings.”

Kokichi relaxed his hands with a shaking breath. Wringing them out as he could come to peace with that. “...I can’t hold food down. I can’t.” He shook his head as he blinked away the frustrated tears. 

Shuichi took the piece of paper off his clipboard. Sliding the drawing across the table for Kokichi to see it in all its glory. He set the clipboard on the floor to lean against the counter. Quietly walking over to where Kokichi sat numb. His wide eyes on the artwork that never failed to impress him.

His warm hand, the one not covered in charcoal dust, slid comfortingly across his back to rub the spot between his shoulder blades. Running lightly up and down his spine, as if to soothe his warring mind. Or welcome his frustrated tears. It’s like he knew Kokichi wanted to throw an angry fit. Crying with his heart burning up the anguish he held towards his mom, or himself.

“...You can.” He whispered. His steady loving voice was crippling to an emotionally weak Kokichi. “...Just like you did last weak. We can work on it, okay?” 

Shuichi’s hands stopped and went to bring themselves around Kokichi. Nudging him lightly so he could lean into the embrace he was trying to provide. Because he can tell Kokichi wants it, but Kokichi is too stubborn to accept it. So he stiffened his limbs, down to his frail core that suddenly dyed his blood with the chills he gets when he’s conflicted.

His hands around him not only circle him in a secure hold, but his fingers gently trace up and down his arms. It’s a subtle movement, it’s soothing, and Kokichi hated the fact that his body naturally found the gesture calming. Though with strict rules in his hand, it left his muscles rigid. Pulling them taut so he wasn’t easily coaxed into trusting. “...That was _hard_.” He whispered, his eyes squinting as his soft lips came together. 

He was helplessly back against Shuichi’s chest, who had their head by his ear. Offering endless comfort, always remarking that he was stunning, constantly being patient with him when he jerks his head away to ruthlessly deny the free attention he was given.

Kokichi’s eyes were impotently connected to the paper before him. He had to look, everything within his curious being needed to look. Even with dismal, bold lines curving around the smudged paper, the obvious contrast between light and dark, Kokichi once again sat innocently in the middle. Not smiling, but peering at Shuichi with emotion in his eyes.

Kokichi wasn’t sure how Shuichi’s hands managed to put an animated thing within an inactive and thought to be languid, drawing. Seeing such a beautiful thing on the paper before him had his head turning away. In, towards Shuichi, where he let him shift around so Kokichi faced him.

Shuichi’s stained black hand was left not touching him, while his clean hand brushed back his bangs. “...I know I should take it as an insult when you look disgusted.” He said softly. He tugged him gently, to pull him off the chair to get his feet back onto the floor. “...but I know that only means I got it right.”

Kokichi just shook his head. Not willing to spit any retort back. He’s gone over this before, Shuichi always paints him wrong. While his reply is always ‘How can I paint you in any other light other than the one I see you in?’ It’s revolting. Yet somehow so, so sickeningly reassuring. 

Even though Kokichi wanted to rip away from the hold, and tear apart the bond they had, he still somehow felt his heart sink when Shuichi slowly let his arms recoil. “...I won’t force you to eat anything.” He said, just as milky smooth as he always speaks. “But, I’m going to make myself something to eat.”

Kokichi felt his heart deflate at the sight of him leaving his side. Obligation swelled in his chest, making him wish he could withstand at least one small meal. Shuichi appeared to sincerely care about him. “...I thought you cared?” Kokichi said softly, reaching forward to grab the lip of the table. Just to hold something, to feel steady when he wasn’t. “About me, I thought you cared.”

Shuichi hadn’t even opened a cabinet yet when he paused, his head turning to look at him curiously. Once again, not a hint of anger in his eyes. He sighed, but his pale lips kept at a small smile. Borderline disappointment and forgiveness. “I do care about you.” He said simply. Kokichi couldn’t tell if that had any weight to it. No raw emotions bled from the words, no lustful desire to let him know. It was if the words were and already had been solidified.

Kokichi gave a faint shake of his head. “...If you had cared, you would be forcing me to eat something. You know, shoving food in my mouth? Since you care so much, that my opinion is overruled by the sheer fact I’m slowly killing myself. If you cared you wouldn’t care if I hated you, you’d make me have something.” 

This accusation elicited a flash of hurt to wash over Shuichi’s eyes. His dim golden eyes flickered to the floor, and he turned back to the cabinets to pull certain items out. “...I’m not the type to put you in such high discomfort. You already said it wasn’t any of the commonly known disorders. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you said you only get sick because of severe anxiety. Making you eat won’t make your anxiety go away.”

Kokichi went to call off another one of his claims but found he couldn’t. His jaw was left half agape as he mulled over his words. Silently gazing at the artist before him, who was pulling out four slices of bread. “...If you cared my anxiety shouldn’t matter.” He said. The fight inside him was drained. “...You’d still make me eat, as long as I live. It shouldn’t matter.”

The bread slices were set out on paper towels so crumbs wouldn’t break off onto the white countertop. He set an equal amount of lettuce on two of the slices, then pre-cut tomatoes, and then cheese. The gentle boy put away the two ingredients and replaced them with deli meats. “It does to me.” He replied. Putting the meat over the cheese, and soon putting that away. 

“You care so much that you don’t want to put my comfort in jeopardy?” He scoffed heartlessly. The grip on the table slacked as his slim pale fingers became an unhealthy shade of pale yellowish-white. “You care so much that you’re okay with standing at the sidelines and watching me waste away?” 

Shuichi gave him one glance up as he worked on the sandwiches. Noticing he was making two sandwiches made Kokichi’s sunken stomach gurgle in a mix of longing and displeasure. After Shuichi stacked the two empty bread slices on top of the ingredients, he looked at Kokichi meaningfully.

“It almost sounds like you want me to make your skin crawl.” Shuichi pulled out a knife and cut the sandwiches in half. “I care about you so much that I want you to eat on your own volition. You said before you tried eating but you just keep getting sick. Which… I took that as you want to eat. But if you could choose between starving, and feeling awful. You’d, well, we know which one you chose.”

The sandwiches were cut one more time. Slicing each sandwich into four pieces. He took each corner of the sandwiches and stacked them onto a plate he pulled out. “...I care about you, meaning I care about when you feel uncomfortable. I will encourage you to eat, but under no circumstances will I _force_ you to eat. You’d just get sick, and it’d be counterproductive.”

Kokichi felt the shock of his muscles tighten. Shuichi gazed at him with his eyes hard and powerfully significant. Striking the message to Kokichi as infallible. Undeniable _care_. They have yet to whisper the three heavy words to one another in the middle of the night. Kokichi still stammers when he sees his portrait, and is still prominently finicky when Shuichi reaches to hold his slim and delicate porcelain hand. 

The artist hardly shows any skin and has never once been seen shirtless before Kokichi. Unlike the former model, who has lost respect for himself and doesn’t care when people unbutton his shirt and tell him to shift clothes in front of unfamiliar eyes. At the same time, feels his skin burn when hands roam over his displayed body. 

Yet, could it count when Shuichi’s strong and empowering gaze transfers that very true message of irrefutable love?

_Love_. That word turned disgusting and scorched his tongue. The thought made him grimace, it repelled his thought of ever spitting the very sound past his pale lips. Overused. Oversaid. Just an annoying overplayed song that makes him want to jam the skip button because it’s the same old heartbreak, the same old feeling. That could rot his malnourished body to absolutely nothing. 

“...So you think I’m just going to eat, just because you gently encouraged me to?” 

Does Shuichi even comprehend the weeks upon weeks of suffering he unintentionally put himself through? The hours spent silently sobbing after an episode of stomach-clenching dry heaving. His throat is always dry, his lips are always cracked and bleeding. There's not one night he doesn’t lay down and feels the bones in his back grind together.

Not one night he doesn’t catch sight of himself. Not one night does he not bundle himself in layers of clothes to not feel how gaunt he feels. Even if he is burning under layers of blankets, he needs to feel the pressure. The uncomfortable sweat soaking his skin makes him feel more like a functioning human.

His throat strangles his voice to sound raspier, with the acid puncturing his tongue. He hears the ugly hacking and coughing even when he’s not locked in his bathroom. His breath reeks and he has a nervous habit of constantly brushing his teeth between classes, even if no one talks face to face him ever.

He _hears_ his mother's voice shatter his hopes for the day when some amendment humiliates him. Saying his shoulders are too slender, his legs are too fleshy and tubby. His eyes look fake, doll-like, inhuman. He used to put contacts in to make his irises black and fitting to his hair that once was black. 

He’s taken countless pills to knock himself out to get longed for rest. Fat green pills that make him choke when he tries to down them with water. Just get it over with. The insults, indignities, fixes, and crude words spat at him. Whether it was online or to his face. He’s insecure, that was obvious since day one.

It never aided in his reclusiveness to share himself with the world when he was constantly sought after when he was younger and getting popular. Scaring his young mind, when he was innocent and didn’t want to understand what adults spoke about. What they wanted to do to him in secret.

Kokichi could go on, and on. Thinking so deeply about his pain made his eyes burn. Insufferable weight on his shoulders was now being conveyed through his eyes. The fake and doll-like hues set in his face. “I hate to burst your hopeful bubble,” He gritted, biting back his hatred for his weaknesses. “But that’s childish, even for you.”

Shuichi let his eyes flit from him to the plate of baby sandwiches. He picked up one and took a small bite. Chewing before going to swallow. Kokichi watched Shuichi ponder his thoughts, while he winced at the image of putting something between his teeth. Clamping down on something made the knife lodged into his abdomen twist nervously. 

“Childish?” Shuichi repeated, leaning on the table with the half-eaten sandwich bit pinched between his fingers. “I think a child would be making you eat with worried prodding, instead of letting you have control over yourself.”

“I hope you aren’t trying to guilt-trip me.”

“Oh, no. That’s not my goal.”

“You have a goal?” Wasn’t the point of this to let Kokichi have the much-desired reins in his life? Imagining Shuichi could be trying to tempt him with food, or guilting him into eating, or- some ulterior motive that he’d never tell him. 

Shuichi nodded. “My goal is to make you feel less anxious.” Ack. Kokichi despised how Shuichi deducted _that_ as the origin of all his problems. His anxiety, his self-hate, his lack of eating, his absence of caring about himself was all _his_ problem. The plate of food wasn’t the issue, neither was his incapable stomach. It’s him. Kokichi is the flaw filled walking dead. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Well, the thought is cute, but allow me to be the first to say you’re miserably failing.”

Kokichi’s heart faltered when Shuichi’s expression fell. Whatever confidence he showed before had been weakened considerably. “...Because I’m feeling a different kind of anxious.” He said quietly, shifting his weight between his feet as he leaned more against the countertop. “...The kind of anxiety I get from being around you. Wishing I had something to give you- that isn’t, just… something I’m not proud of. I can’t help but assume you’re going to snap with me because I always ruin relationships.” He huffed, always getting caught up in each word. Each syllable sounding suddenly cut off, as if he had more to say.

Relationships, both platonically and romantically. Yet it’s all the same. Friends don’t know how to handle real people, speaking real words, and not playing pretend and being a fake cheat. Kokichi doesn’t like stitching on a posing smile unless he’s in front of a camera. Doing it with people makes him feel like he’s frozen in front of two ocular lenses. 

Each blink is a flash. A picture stained into one's memory of Kokichi eyeing them distrustfully. “I want to actually- _be_ something?” His questioning scratched his throat, he swallowed roughly and continued. “I want to make you feel good. I want to make you feel this nervous, and I want you to see that I feel… _okay_ with you.” 

Just okay. Okay enough to feel his fingertips against his skin and not have his mind freeze rigidly. Nothing cries out in discomfort, his blood doesn’t spike with body trembling ice. His pulse slows, and his muscles slacken.

“...Which,” Kokichi felt his heart sink, “Shuichi. I’ve been trying to feel okay for _years_.”

The boy before him had been quietly munching on the little sandwiches while he listened to him. He ate maybe three little corners, before finding plastic wrap to pull over the rest of the sandwiches. He moved silently, Kokichi’s eyes pinned on him. He reached over to take Kokichi’s hand and tug him away from the table, and away from the now forsaken drawing.

“I do feel nervous, in that way,” Shuichi said tenderly. Keeping his hand around Kokichi’s, firm and unyielding. Taking Kokichi back into the living room where he caught a glimpse of the rain still thundering to the ground. “My hands get warm and my mind clears to a blank.”

He sat onto the couch instead of the floor. Where he saw there was one window left open so he could smell the mildewy scent of rain. Shuichi settled beside him, his hand moved to slide down his back. Kneading from his upper, to lower muscles to encourage him to loosen up.

“I feel loose, I feel drawn to you as if I’m meant to have my fingers wrapped around your hand.” As he said it, his fingers traced around his waist. Only to drop and hang around him naturally. Kokichi’s mind made a note to recognize this as comforting traces, gentle soft touching. “...You are beautiful, and eventually, you’ll understand that I am happy by just knowing you have a desire to eat. Which to me is a desire to live.”

Kokichi blinked slowly. Feeling himself relax and melt against his warm heated body, and surrender to his arms. Kokichi helplessly leaned against him, stretched skin, creaking bones and all. “...What if I’m just too scared to die.” He said, his thin lips turning numb. 

Shuichi hummed into his ear. Which he found comforting, to have that deep steady vibration in his throat right next to his achy head. “...Then I’ll make living dauntless.”

_Impossible_. Kokichi yearned to hiss at him. With his teeth tight together and his lips hardly moving. “...I’ll _starve to death_ before you can manage _that_.” He spat back instead. Even if his voice was harsh, it was pulled taut- yanked to a strained whine. A desperate bark that choked out into a whimper. 

“No, you won’t.” Shuichi chided faintly. 

Kokichi scoffed. Throwing a bone to the thought of hunger pierced his stomach in a short-lived onslaught of his gut clenching in a body crippling squeeze. Followed by a growl Kokichi felt bubble up in his abdomen. It sent skittish pain writhing up his spine, making him push against Shuichi uncomfortably to ignore the call for something stabilizing. 

“...I’m going to help you, so you won’t starve,” Shuichi reassured. “I can’t say I will reverse the damage you have, but I’ll make you feel better.”

Kokichi grimaced. “...You’ve already made me feel like I’m not an alien. What else could you do?”

“Stay with me, and you’ll find out in due time.” 

The discomfort sewn into his torso twists again and Kokichi doesn’t feel any better. It feels like a small violent jerking motion. But every hour he’ll feel it, and he’s felt the hollow sting of it for a long time. His slim arms and legs are proof he’s suffering. The constricting cramps embedded in his stomach, restlessly plaguing his worn arms.

His body had indulged itself in devouring his healthy fat that clung to his thighs and his calves. Even his cheeks lost that plump supple rounded shape to it. He was never overweight, but he was always treated like he was. The layer of flesh fastened underneath anyone's upper arm, there when you lift your arm you could reach and squish at least some between your fingers. All Kokichi was met with deathly pale skin and hard bone.

His hips were distressingly defined. His ribs were the first signs, and he fears it might be the last when it comes to how deteriorated he’s gotten. Though, as ground away as he feels, there's still a couple more months left to his life if he goes on like this. Is it worth the wait?

Kokichi’s prone to thinking it isn't. 

“...you have an unhealthy amount of faith in me.”

“Mm. That’s a matter of opinion.” Shuichi has this unnatural calmness to his tone that makes him hard to relate to. In a way that makes Kokichi’s face crinkle to wrap his head around why Shuichi can be so composed, even though the boy he supposedly loved was many weeks away from starving himself.

Kokichi often wonders what Shuichi went through to get to this point. Where he acts like a soldier coming from a horrific and bloody battle. Only to come across someone who scraped their knee and is peacefully comforting them, saying it’s okay. 

Leaving out the heavy words of; ‘ _I’ve seen people die, murderers ruthlessly take lives, and have had things blow up in my face over, and over again. This pales in comparison to the pain I endured_. ’

Except Shuichi doesn’t say that. Instead, he continues to comfort Kokichi gently. Chiding him ever so softly, giving him free will, praising him when he deserves the least of his respect and his utmost hatred. “Do you believe I’ll help you?” He asks tenderly, his lips still close to his ear and his arms settled around him. 

_No_. Kokichi almost let the word on his tongue slip loose. As much as he desired to say it, he truly wanted to outright claim that Shuichi was just incapable of aiding him, and remotely nurturing him back to the way he used to be. _But_ , despite his lack of faith, and the numbing irk inside him, he felt peace with those words.

Peace. A sensation that he could break the bounds of this constant disturbance. It was the ghost of freedom, certain tranquility smothered into his words that made Kokichi believe. Although, in all probability, it was his wishful soul taking whatever it could grab.

He wants to feel like he’s steady for once. 

Kokichi yearns to feel like he’s worth each breath his lungs constrict to take.

So he shifted, not too much, but enough to look at Shuichi. He gazed into his willowy amber eyes and for once _trusted_ them. The artist, who’s hands replicated his dying body on canvas. The artist, who could make him melt at the touch of his warm fingertips to work away the aches. The artist, who was dealing with his own traumas and battles, was willing to turn around and hold a hand to him.

The former model, metaphorically, reached to take that comforting hand in his.

“I believe you.”

* * *

For once, some form of pain, or hurt, swelled in Rantaro’s once green shining eyes. For just a moment, a very still, and silent moment. Where it seemed like even in the cafe the waitresses and waiters stopped hurrying around tables. Where people around them faded and buzzed into quiet white noise. Where Kokichi felt a flash of guilt struck him.

“Why?” The other asked. It didn’t sound accusatory. Rather, hurt. In a quiet way that still showed he was calm, just not understanding. Rantaro looked away, glancing at the cup of tea he had gotten and focused on the ever so slight ripples. 

It’s the kind of realization most have when they see they can’t help someone unless that person wishes to be helped. Though, for most people it takes longer, so he was at least glad Rantaro ripped off the band-aid quicker than a majority.

“...Why?” Kokichi repeated, he wasn’t as soft as when Rantaro said it, but he was awfully quiet. “Because someone else is helping me.”

At this, his long time friend was notably relaxed. Even sighing with the weight of the world on his shoulders suddenly lifted off. There was a slight smile ebbing its way onto Rantaro’s glossy tinted lips. It's a glad smile. “For a second, I thought you were going to say you didn’t need help. When you clearly do.”

“Yikes.” Kokichi held back a weak chuckle. “The fact you believed me so quickly is scary. I’m a genuine liar, y’know.”

Rantaro laughed softly. It sounded comforting enough to let Kokichi drop his tense shoulders and scoot his uninviting coffee towards Rantaro. Not so subtly trading it out for the welcoming tea that his taste buds much more preferred. “What if I spit in that.” He asked dryly, as Kokichi was taking a sip.

It wasn’t funny. The dull joke had no luster to it at all. But Kokichi still choked a laugh that burned his throat as he quickly set down the drink and covered his mouth as he laughed. It was a withered laugh, you could tell he wasn’t used to making that sound in a while. Still, Rantaro ended up passing him napkins when tea spilled down his chin.

“You—You aren’t f-funny.” Kokichi swallowed roughly. It edged a weird smile onto his chapped lips, at a first glance he’d look nervous. But really, he was glad. Glad that Rantaro didn’t mind he wasn’t the one helping him, glad that he was okay as long as his best friend got the help he needed. Even if it was a small start.

“What are you talking about? That was comedy gold.” Rantaro couldn’t have slathered any more sarcasm into his words. Kokichi huffed as he threw a dirty crumpled napkin at him. 

He smacked his lips, backwash never tasted good, and that was all Rantaro’s fault. After a bit more light chatter, Kokichi at one point did spit in the tea and dared Rantaro to drink it, who nonchalantly did. Much to Kokichi’s amusement and disgust. Eventually, the drinks were both drained and Kokichi felt tired.

They walked out through the doors and silently went to Rantaro’s car. As Kokichi buckled himself into the passenger seat, Rantaro looked at him after he started the engine. 

“Want to get ice cream?”

Kokichi’s violet eyes flickered to meet Rantaro’s. The question wasn’t hard, it was a simple yes, or no. Rantaro would understand if he declined, but Kokichi didn’t want to ruin the slight smile he managed to stain his lips with. “Sure.” He agreed. “But I don’t want anything except sprinkles off your ice cream.”

“I wasn’t going to get sprinkles.”  
  


“You sure are now.”

After another laugh from Rantaro, they left to get a treat. All while Kokichi curled up in the passenger seat with a tired yawn, saying how Rantaro had an unhealthy ice cream addiction and should go to dairy rehab. 

_He wasn’t getting better_. Kokichi had concluded his life saying that. He wasn’t healthy, nor will he ever be. He stared out the window as Rantaro drove to their town's ice cream place. His heavy eyelids were drawn half closed as he rested his chin in his stiff and pale palm. 

The ground was still soaked, the mist was still getting spun up into the air as the car turned small puddles to vapor. Yesterday it poured a lot. Enough for their area to get a flood warning, but usually, it dissipates before roads flood and vehicles hydroplane across the streets. It was just a terribly rainy season that Kokichi found dull peace in.

A musky, mildewy, sluggish season. Fog sunk around them, there's a certain heaviness to it Kokichi liked. Similar to being guided to sleep, there's no energy, everything's tired, and Kokichi is too.

“Where were you yesterday?” Rantaro asked as they turned into the parking lot. “I called to see how you were doing, you didn’t pick up.” That’s become a theme now, hasn’t it? Kokichi unfolded himself, grimacing at the way his ribs dug into himself the more curled he tucked himself. Not caring that he got mud on the seat from walking out onto the puddle filled sidewalk before driving here.

He looked at him, who sat still gazing at him. There's always a pause before Rantaro ever moves to open the door, like an encouragement to take things slow and have time to think. Kokichi rubbed his eyes as he thought. 

“Someone’s house.” He muttered as he reached for the car door. Yet his slim fingers stopped as he grabbed the handle. The ghost of a withering smile gracing his unclaimed lips as he glanced at Rantaro. Tired wilted eyes met friendly calm ones. 

Saihara Shuichi always painted him with life, and he hopes he’ll regain it soon enough. 

“The someone who helps me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I really enjoy it when these boys are honest with how they feel. I didn't think there would be a part two, but it was called for. I don't know if there will be more either, but if there is, and this continues, I think I'll be entertaining the idea of a slow recovery. That will eventually morph into deeper love between the two. 
> 
> Have a good day you beautiful people <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ People survive and talk about it. People survive and go silent. Some people survive and create. Everyone deals with unimaginable pain in their own way, and everyone is entitled to that, without judgment. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote another chapter. I was just thinking about the difficulty of having a parent around that doesn't understand. This might have just four chapters? Since I want there to be a solution? Who knows, I work on the spin of inspiration. Big thanks to the people who keep reading though! I love your comments and cherish them deeply. If I don't reply it's only because I don't know what to say? I don't want the thank yous to get redundant and sound meaningless. I hope this piece doesn't disappoint

His water exposed hands had pruned over quite a bit ago.

Kokichi ran his fingers over a white porcelain plate. Or maybe the plate was ceramic, that seemed more likely. But porcelain comes to mind because of the color. He doesn’t know when milky white was correlated with porcelain, perhaps the fault lies in the pictures he’s seen of Chinese porcelain cups. White, but with colorful designs decorating them.

He squirted a generous amount of dish soap onto the little sponge that had a rough side, and a more squishy side. The milky white ceramic plate was set aside in the rack to dry. He reached for the next dirtied plate, practically collecting mold and attracting flies on the counter beside the sink. 

When he came home after a day out with Rantaro, his house reeked of post-party supply. Not that it was an immature teen party thrown just because your parents were gone for the night. It was a rational mature adult party. 

Kokichi can’t say he lived in a poor environment, so he can’t say his house was in poor condition.

It’s large. The rooms are wider than the usual household. The ceilings are taller, but not by too much. Which makes his living space a perfect place to host a party. When he had come home, it was nine at night. Rantaro wanted to go to the mall, where he let Kokichi buy all the hideous clothing pieces he wanted.

The air carried the tinge of alcohol. Not too much, since his former Photographer's friends were responsible drinkers, and probably only two bottles were emptied. That particular group of adults was more prone to rich red wine. So maybe three bottles next to the two, he guessed. 

Upon walking into the kitchen, Kokichi’s eyes had spotted the bottles on the kitchen island. Wine glasses scattered the countertop, and dirty dishes stacked by the sink. The empty restaurant take-out boxes seemed lazily shoved into the too-small trash can. 

He released a breath as he still felt relieved he was with Rantaro when his Photographer held the party. Just imagining himself lingering too long out of his room in the company of familiarly dark faces makes his skin crawl. He scrubbed the plate much harder at the thought. It’s not an easy image. Of course, his strained muscles would tighten at the notion of it.

The reason he cleaned the dishes was that his hands were itching for something to do. Even if the lingering smell of food made his shrunken stomach churn with an impatient growl. He worked through the pangs of discomfort. He looked up with a sigh, he ran out of room in the drying rack three plates ago, so he turned to the small stack he had been creating.

He audibly gasped when he caught sight of a looming silhouette just outside the kitchen. He jolted back out of reflex and the plate slipped out of his hands and shattered to the floor. Frozen, slightly shaking from the subdued panic. Obviously they scared him, but he didn’t expect to react so strongly.

“Those were new.” They deadpanned. 

Kokichi bristled at the sound of that voice. His Photographer was home, of course she was. She wasn’t the type to host a party then leave to let the remnants rot. “... What a shame.” He offered. His feet were still planted to the floor. Sharp bits of the plate were scattered at his toes. It shattered like glass, maybe it was glass.

“Clean that up before my clients come back from a smoke break.” She ordered, her eyes just as stone-cold as they always have been. 

“Other models?” Kokichi asked, trying his hand at sounding casual. While trying to guess which spot on the floor wouldn’t pierce his bare feet. He awkwardly maneuvered onto a supposed clear spot, only to wince when that unseeable fragment dug into his heel. She was still standing there, so he just clamped his teeth over his bottom lip to remain quiet.

“Yes.” She replied, always sounding so regal somehow. She eyed him as he went to open the kitchen cabinet in search of the broom that was typically tucked on the side where a gap was. “The broom is in the dining room.”

His shoulders sunk and his head lowered as he gave her a defeatedly tired look. “Not gonna be helpful and get it?” Those words earned him an authoritative glare. So he huffed out a small sigh and walked around the island where the glassy plates hadn’t broken, in order to leave the dining room that was seeable from the kitchen. 

His Photographer watched him the whole way as he leisurely went over to the wall where the broom rested. Kokichi picked it up and turned to see her staring. “Um, what? Not gonna take a break with them?” He wasn’t expecting an answer as he walked over to the plate bits over the floor.

“I don’t smoke.” She reminded dully. Right, she once claimed that she had a reputation to uphold. One that meant she wasn’t addicted to anything, not even nicotine. 

Kokichi tried to sweep up the bits best he could. But his eyes were bleary, and he was tired. It was a Sunday night and the ever so dreaded morning would come so quickly. “You used to.” Kokichi said back, not missing hardly two beats after she replied. “Before I was born, you did.”

He looked at her, coming eye to eye since his Photographer was 5’2 and relatively his height. He caught her sneer, then her looking away with her arms folded. “How do you know that? I never told you.” As if his knowing had offended her, she sounded defensive. 

“Pictures.” He replied nervously. Nervously? His hands were still a bit wobbly from the scare earlier, but he shouldn’t be nervous. “Old online stuff, y’ know? You should really delete your old Facebook account. Honestly, I’m embarrassed for you.” He explained, not sure why he’s lying. 

He was told to throw out an old album, a scrapbook of sorts. It was dated in the years before and after he was born. So curiously he looked inside and found countless photos. Some from a polaroid and others from being printed off. Some pictures were from his Photographer's high school life, up until she was pregnant. 

When he scoured the pages, his heart had beat with hope. He grimaces at the feeling now, because he somewhat wished he would find a picture of who his father was. But, there were too many pictures of his Photographer standing beside men. Many were kissing, many looked like she was in a relationship with. So, his search ended there.

He might be afraid of her taking the album away. Because he kept it. Inside were two pictures of when he was a baby. A rare sight to behold, but it wasn’t that the picture was centered around him. It wasn’t like his Photographer thought he was cute and wanted to freeze the moment in time.

No, not at all. He’s in the background, one of her friends holding him on their hip. Awkwardly holding the rubber piece of the bottle in his mouth while he looks like he’d been crying. The other photo is him, probably 6 months old, younger than the first photo, placed in the sink sucking on a spoon. 

His Photographer was sitting in the forefront with her friends, posing for the picture, ignoring what's in the background. Like she always acted, even as he got older and became the subject of the forefront. Always looked pasted, treated like someone she’s clients with. It was clear she didn’t like babies or children at all. Raising one must have been nothing more than annoying.

He gasped quietly, pushing a sharp breath of air through his teeth as he glared at that one betraying shard. He had bent down to pick up the large fragments, he placed his palm on the floor only to have a piece lodge itself in his palm. Again, it’s small, but that’s what makes getting it out so annoying.

Kokichi didn’t realize his Photographer had gotten closer, practically standing over him. She most likely came to see what he was making a fuss over. Which, under the spotlight of her gaze, he pretended as if he wasn’t bothered. 

“Why does my kid have to be the one with such a mouth on him.” She sighed, arms still crossed. Now leaning against the counter island. Simply watching him sift around the glass shards, trying not to get pricked for the third time.

“I don’t know why you haven’t asked yourself that question sooner.” He retorted. Fatigue pulling at his eyes. Next time he won’t clean the dishes, maybe he’ll just walk out his jitteriness if he has extra nerves to exhaust. 

“It’s a question I ask every time I think you’ve matured at all.”

“I live to disappoint.”

“I’m all too aware.” 

He doesn’t know why it still hurts. Every time he hears her voice ring out emotionlessly. A tone he’s used to hearing, like she’s given up far before she even started. It most likely was nice before he came along and ruined her life with parental responsibility. She assumes he’ll one day wake up more like an adult, one day he’ll obey.

Kokichi honestly doesn’t particularly like disappointing people. He just so happens to have a knack for it. So why not embrace the talent?

The glass shards were pushed into the dustpan he set on the floor. More stagnant silence eroded the air. He doesn’t know why she’s just watching him, standing there to look down at him clean the floor. The feeling of cold air breathed down his neck and he finally stood up to dump the shattered plate in recycling. 

He looked at her, and she's still staring. 

“What?” He asked, feeling like she was judging him. Her eyes always meant something was wrong. Naturally, he felt self-conscious, a hand came to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. For the first time that day, he remembered he didn’t comb through his hair at all after he woke up that morning.

Nevermind his unbrushed hair, he looked down at what he was wearing. Wondering if she was glaring for that reason. He had on loose shorts and wore a black pokemon shirt. Not entirely pleasing to anyone who kept high standards. He swears she even sleeps in her vest. 

Still, the nervous ball of anxiety was like a punch to his achingly hollow stomach. Sheepishly, his head lowered as he tried to depict what was wrong. He should take himself out of the room if she wasn’t going to say anything. Before he realizes it, he’s chewing on his thumbnail, gnawing at his bitten nail and making the tip of his thumb red. 

“Are you sick?”

The question caught him off guard, enough to elicit a flinch. His purple eyes meet black irises that match the darkness of her pupils. “No?” He sounds nearly offended, but he’s not, he’s just confused. 

“Mentally.” She corrects. “Mentally, are you suffering from something?”

At this, he scoffed. It seems a bit too late to be asking. “If you don’t count sleep deprivation, I’m perfectly sane.” He deadpanned. His Photographer seems the least bit entertained. He watched her roll her eyes and suddenly glance in the direction of the back door where their porch was. Kokichi heard it too, the back door opening.

“I don’t even know why I asked.” She sighed, displeased, and irritated. She stepped off to wave to whomever her clients were over. 

Kokichi suddenly felt suffocated when two people stepped into the kitchen. The trashcan is in the corner of the room, one of those push cabinets that come in and out to save space. So he felt significantly smaller when three people whom he did not trust unintentionally surrounded him.

Two rather beautiful people were chatting with one another. One roughly around the age of twenty-one, the other seemed to be his age. Kokichi briefly wondered if they posed together without having any attraction to one another. He ignores the thought, at the moment he wanted to leave, because the leftover party members' eyes are traveling all over him.

“This is your son?” The assumed to be the younger one asked, politely curious, and obviously had nothing to drink that night. Kokichi can tell the other seems a bit spacy, but they aren’t drunk. Probably freshly 21 and tasted the bitter sting of alcohol for the first time. 

“Yes.” His Photographer nodded. “That’s my son.” There's distaste soaking her words. Like reeling back from something disgusting. Kokichi is rather repulsive, so he can see why one guest just hardly sneered at what he’s wearing. The prissy kind of people that he doesn’t like too much. 

The exhaustion that had been weighing on him settled uncomfortably. He shifted to his foot that he hadn’t pierced, swallowing thickly as he tried to figure out when to leave. Obviously she hadn’t told him he used to be in their predicament. If they found out he used to model, they’d laugh.

They kept talking, it didn’t concern him anymore so he slipped out of the room. Feeling violated, and repulsed. He reminded himself that his hand was bleeding. So he locked himself in the bathroom to run his palm under frigid water.

The chill is encroaching familiar. He tried not to stare at himself, he tried not to feel nauseous. Yet the way his eyelids sink, and the weight that bears down on his limbs makes it ever so impossible to focus on the small amount of blood trickling off his hand. His pale hand, his colorless fingers.

He can feel his heart pound in his ears, he doesn’t know why the thought brought him so much panic. But it becomes ever the more evident that he’s painstakingly lightheaded. His other hand pressed against the milky white-colored sink. Matching his fingers, matching his complexion. 

He felt the moment a wash of cold breath hit his face, the blood draining and seeping to reveal how stone-cold he is. Burning blotches pepper his vision as he felt his knees buckle. His heart pounding in his chest erupted into his ears as his fingers bleed numb.

He hits the floor before he could catch himself. 

* * *

It wasn’t the first time he’s fainted. 

After each energy-zapping spell, he’s left wondering if it’s gone too far. Even though he’s too aware he is. That night after he pulled his heavy body into a sitting up position after finding himself on the bathroom floor, he hauled himself to fall unfeeling onto his mattress. 

He blinked bleary wet eyes as he yawned. His shoulders sagged, and his feet dragged. His feet felt particularly heavy, and the foot that had a small piece of plate driven into his heel notably stung with each step. In truth, it wasn’t a large shard. But he’s thoroughly fatigued, his skin pulled tight around his ankles and his joints are constantly stiff. 

His heel feels more like solid bone every time he steps. Breaking through that small slit in his skin under his foot. He never used a bandaid, because he figured it would just wear off due to walking around school. But after a constant throb sinking in during classes. He eventually excused himself to the bathroom to see if he was just being sensitive. 

He wasn’t. The bottom of his sock was stained red. Only in the part under his heel. Kokichi sighed at the sight. Solving the solution with shoving a wad of toilet paper under his foot to avoid staining his shoe with blood. It probably wouldn’t bleed anymore, but he used the precaution anyway. 

School blurred together as he shuffled himself through the crowd according to a hated schedule. No-one stopped him after a while, the Model-Who-Quit talk died down to a dull whisper. The only moments he remembers are getting stopped by a teacher who asked him if he was okay—which is a rather rare occurrence—In which he replied _“Life’s just peachy.”_ and walked past the lunchroom.

The smell of food makes his stomach twist in a hard knot.

* * *

The insistent ring of the air buzzes and tastes almost stale in his mouth. Almost nothing renders except the pressure in his palm and the occasional sting of his heel. The slight cut on his hand went ignored since it was a mild cut dung into his off-hand. Still, with undeniable facts that he’s present, the world still grew blurry. 

“—Is that alright?”

Kokichi blinked. Willing away the fog plaguing his headache. “Sorry, what?”

Shuichi wore an understanding smile. It took another moment for Kokichi to realize he was standing in the art studio. The clothes hanging off him were soft, no shoes tugged loose on his feet, instead, fuzzy socks hugged around his legs up to his bruised knees.

Which were bruised after he tripped yesterday, when he mistook a step on the stairs.

“I want to try something new today,” Shuichi explained patiently. “...that’s why I asked you to come in whatever you’d typically lounge around in, like when you’re snowed in and you just want to relax.” That, Kokichi did. Shorts were his go-to when it came to being comfortable. With a big oversized shirt that was soft to touch with your fingers.

“Since I always paint someone standing or sitting.” He continued. “I’ve been trying to capture relaxed body language, but… ah, I’m not too good at it.” 

Kokichi’s weary eyes drifted over to where the backdrop was. In front, where he would typically sit or stand, was a hammock. The kind you could set up inside that hung from the metal hooks safely drilled into the ceiling. They were there prior to the hammock, they always have. Since his beloved always hung the backdrop in different places. He then took a moment to stare at Shuichi. 

A smile betrayed the worn look in his eyes. “I’m assuming this is not at all a coincidence to when you asked what I’d prefer to lay in or on if I could choose?” In which, his answer had been a hammock. He doesn’t have one, but he enjoyed the feeling of swaying in the air. 

Drifting, almost. Swaying, in a moment he could close his eyes and ignore everything. He remembered vaguely when he was little, he would grow too excited over it. He’s still childish in that sense, because his eyes had already flitted back to the hammock. 

Shuichi chuckled warmly. “Course not.” He mused, letting Kokichi’s hand fall from his grasp. “I already have my canvas set up, just lay in whatever position. As long as you’re comfortably relaxed, you’re achieving my goal.” _His goal_ . Kokichi told himself. _Shuichi’s goal was to make him relax._ It was a respectable goal, one that would be a stepping stone to another goal he mentioned before. 

With foolish giddiness, Kokichi walked over to the hammock. It was made with rope intertwining one another. Small ropes, most likely crafted from cotton. Making it flexible and easy to stretch. He sat down on it first, testing how much he sank into it, and how easily it molded to the shape of his sitting position.

The leeway was comfortable. That, and it was sturdy. So he could lean back and not jerk uneasily in fear of falling backward or flipping. The material still smelled new. “Did you buy this for just one painting?” Kokichi asked, lying down comfortably. Shifting so his hands were behind his head and one leg was crossed over the other.

“I bought it for you,” Shuichi replied easily. The fact he sounded so comfortable admitting that, made Kokichi’s face stir with warmth. “So it’s yours, really.”

Kokichi turned his head from staring at the ceiling, to gazing at Shuichi from where he lay. “Bought it for me?” He echoed. “Why do that? It’s hardly my birthday. Not to mention the one month anniversary. Which, by the way. We aren’t doing. Because that’s dumb.” He bit his lip as the words fell out as they pleased. But, his fear of offending Shuichi dissipated as he heard his laugh.

“Why is it dumb?” Shuichi asked, after his laughter died down. He saw Kokichi had picked a comfy position, soon dipping his paintbrush into a glob of paint to begin. 

“Because it’s just... _sad_ .” Kokichi continued. “It’s like you’re going into the relationship expecting it to fail. Then, after a month of not failing, you celebrate.” He sighed, the conversations of girls running their months on how their anniversary went, or how destroyed they seemed when their significant other ‘ _carelessly_ ’ forgot. 

“Or,” Shuichi started, with the sound of a smile in his voice. “It could be seen as a day to celebrate when you got together. A start of something happy.” 

“We still aren’t doing that,” Kokichi stated. Turning his head back up to the pale white ceiling. Hoping Shuichi wouldn’t mind, he shifted back and forth to sway a little. Since what was a hammock without the joy of drifting in air? “...Why bother buying me this, anyway?” He asked softly. With the small creak of the hammock swinging behind his voice. “I can’t take it home.”

“So you like it?” Shuichi asked with childish hope embedded in his tone. 

It was scoff-able. “Of course I like it.” He said honestly. “...I love hammocks. They make me feel nice.” He took in a deep breath at the feel of it rocking him. Then exhaling slowly, letting his eyes close. What would top the moment off, is if his phone was rested on his midsection, with his headphones in his ears. Gentle music would fade in and he would breath out.

Shuichi didn’t respond to that. Making Kokichi assume he entered his creative headspace. The place Shuichi dozes on into, his eyes grow distant with wonder. With a paint-dipped brush in hand, and a blank canvas taunting the artist. There's nothing Shuichi couldn’t replicate. 

Kokichi let himself fall silent. He often wishes he could peer into Shuichi’s world. His paintings were only a picture of that, a mere glimpse. Within those glimpses, Kokichi sees raw unfiltered beauty. Sometimes he sees violent pictures when Shuichi lets him see what’s underneath the covered canvases.

Some are bloody. Kokichi remembers. With depictions of suicide and a threshold of graven emotions. Thrashing nightmares and fiercely drawn images of dark and dismal dead lands. The bleak and mournful paintings seem to bleed into his mind. Even disturbing, he finds solace within them.

Not because it itself is comforting. But there’s consolation in knowing that he isn’t the only one who feels the way Shuichi has demonstrated in those pictures. The only difference being the fact that Kokichi can’t perfectly mirror the chaotic feeling inside. In those paintings, it comes to life. There’s motion in stillness, there’s emotion behind a dead stare. 

He hummed lightly. Letting himself be rocked with the gentle sway of the hammock. It’s nice. Too nice. A pang of exhaustion filters through his spent body. 

Then everything faded. 

* * *

Gentle fingertips touch his cheek. A soft caress that is followed by the echo of his name. The rocking shifted into a light, hardly noticeable jostling. Kokichi didn’t open his eyes, they felt too weighted and his energy seemed too low to even get up. Besides, he enjoyed that gentle touch. Smooth, buttery, delicately brushing against his skin.

“...Ouma,” He hears his name again. “You fell asleep.” His voice is feathery, he can tell there’s an amused smile on his rosy lips. Pleased, and so soft sounding. 

For a moment he thinks he hears music. The gentle notes of a piano with a humble song put to it. He likes it too much to bring himself to wake up completely. It’s dancing amidst his dreams, and trying to lull him back to rest. Yet the tender fingers of Shuichi are fondling over his cheek. 

So he lets his eyes open. Slowly, but he doesn’t blink away the nearing fog around his vision. “...Mmm.” He lifted a hand to ensnare Shuichi’s fingers and entangle them with his. “...I can’t help but think you wanted this to happen.” He hummed, almost giggling when Shuichi circled his pointer finger lightly into his palm.

Shuichi didn’t respond right away. As the fog receded in his eyes, he saw Shuichi gazing at him. Yet his gaze was distant, Kokichi thought he might have lost his focus, but he’s smiling softly. Some fantasy must have overtook him because Kokichi didn’t believe that anyone could mindlessly gaze at him with such meaning in their stare. 

“...You always look tired.” Shuichi said, standing back up from his crouched position beside the hammock. “When you aren’t wearing makeup, you seem worn. You often say that your shoulders ache too, so I can’t imagine that makes sleeping easy.” He gave a small tug to the hand that had Kokichi’s. “Want to come into the living room? I finished the painting quite a bit ago…”

Kokichi blinked at that. “How long did you let me sleep for?” He winced as he sat up, letting Shuichi gently pull him forward so he could swing his legs over the side. A sting of dizziness bled into his head through his temples. But he ignored it.

“Just an hour and a half,” Shuichi replied. As he pulled Kokichi to his feet.

The moment he did, a headache shattered the cloud in his mind and was replaced with a strong vibrantly burning shield over his eyes. He must have stood up too quickly, because his knees turned weak, and had it not been for Shuichi standing there, he would have hit the floor.

He fell forward into Shuichi. Who hadn’t expected the loss in balance. He stumbled as he caught him, his arms fumbling to encircle him. Pressing him against his chest to steady him. “Are—Are you okay?” He said worriedly, trying to recover from being surprised. 

Kokichi only whined in response. His legs still felt feeble, and his hands felt nonexistent pin prinks sinking into his stretched skin. He grabbed the back of Shuichi’s shirt, embarrassed that he even stumbled into him. “...I’m fine.” He huffed, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent the art studio from spinning. 

He felt incredibly faint. He wished Shuichi would just lower him to the steady, unmoving floor so he could recollect himself. “I’m just—dizzy…” 

Shuichi held onto his shoulders with a firm grip as he cautiously lifted him off his chest. Which forced Kokichi to get a grip and put weight back onto his feet. One heel, in particular, shot unwanted pain into his foot. Kokichi grimaced, his hands still gripped Shuichi’s shirt, almost afraid of tipping over.

“...Headache?” Shuichi asked softly. Removing one hand from his shoulder to brush Kokichi’s bangs out of his eyes. 

Kokichi simply nodded. His head dipped backwards, he watched the ceiling whirl above him. Making his stomach want to spin with it. Though the nausea sprouted from the root of his gut. So he knew he wouldn’t get sick, he was just overwhelmingly lightheaded. 

“...Come on,” He heard Shuichi beckon. Kokichi felt his sturdy hand loop under his arm and hook his waist. Keeping him upright, and preventing him from falling over by leaning his head against Shuichi’s side. Kokichi still was capable of walking by himself, he wasn’t too far gone. But this felt nice, it alleviated the trouble of carrying his weight. So he let Shuichi walk him into the kitchen. 

Where Shuichi pulled out a chair and gestured for him to sit down. Which he did. He didn’t pay attention to what the other was doing, he was just glad he wasn’t moving. So he could focus on calming his spur of dizziness.

When he heard the sound of glass getting set on top of the counter, he looked up to see a glass of water in front of him. To which he stared at. “...What happened to not forcing me to have anything?” He questioned. The weight of it wasn’t there, so it left his tongue without any spite. He took the glass of water and put his bottom lip to the rim and tipped it back.

“I’m not forcing you to drink water.” Shuichi reasoned. “I figured you were dehydrated, and you didn’t like feeling dizzy. It’s up to you if you want to have all of it or not.” Once again, Shuichi never sounded strict. Gentle, and understanding. His outlook with issues was something Kokichi appreciated beyond words.

The cup was filled just over halfway. Kokichi sipped it slowly, silently churning over the facts in his head that the hate he felt for Shuichi was truly adoration. It was true, he can hold water or drinks down just fine. Even if it was more liquidly, and more slippery and easier to come back up. It was the weight that was lacking in drinks. 

With food, it's a more solid meal. It feels like he’s swallowed numerous rocks that sit stale in his stomach. Weight always meant too much, too much meant he overdid something. Therefore he made a mistake. To get rid of the weight, is to get rid of the mistake. Ultimately getting rid of the food. 

He doesn’t want to be that nervous. Kokichi thought, as he stared at the water rippling within the glass cup. He doesn’t want to lose _this_ much sleep over it. Not to mention this much weight. “...Hm. I hate when you make a good point.” He muttered, taking another sip. “...I forgot to have any water today, so, thanks.” Even if not all his fainting spells deprive from lack of hydration. It still helped.

He set the glass down when there was only a little bit left. Finding the watery sensation running down his throat enough to make him not want another cup any time soon. He couldn’t believe drinking water was supposed to be a daily activity. As reviving as it proves to be, it’s such a task to sit through each gulp as tasteless as it is. 

Shuichi seemed satisfied though. Kokichi would have liked to call him a hypocrite, but he always has a water bottle somewhere beside him. Taking occasional sips, or longer drinks depending on what he’s doing. 

As his eyes analize Shuichi. He often notices similarities he carries from day to day. Same movements, the same habit of grabbing a snack to munch on after creating a beautifully raw painting. Always asking Kokichi if he would like to do something, even if he’s all too well aware Kokichi would agree. 

Sometimes he offers pretzels or small snacks to him. After a while, Kokichi learned Shuichi didn’t do this out of encouragement, he did it out of the habit of being polite. 

Always pausing to look at his features, always gently gliding his hands over his shoulders, he tends to slowly reach around him when on the couch. Each time, he does it. As if he’s silently telling Kokichi he wants to settle his hands around his waist. Asking permission, in a way. Giving Kokichi time to be able to push his hands away if he isn’t in the mood. Which has happened plenty of times.

Shuichi has habits, little customs, personal traditions, silent mannerisms, and small routines he keeps to like a religion. It seems that Shuichi worships human value. He deifies respect, kindness, and service. 

When he describes him to Rantaro, his friend always jokes by pointing out he hasn’t seen the other half of him. Since no one can be that perfect. So perfect as to never break a personal modest code, a moral standard set by himself, or think to defy his individual law. 

Shuichi isn’t perfect though.

He’s been around long enough to hear Shuichi angrily speaking with someone on the phone. Furious, vulgar words spat in a heat of anger, yelling with the person on the other end. Ending in a sorrowful apology, but it sounds forced. He’s heard him curse sharply after dropping something or thinking he’s offended someone. 

Sometimes, though it isn't as rare as people may think, Kokichi can occasionally smell nicotine on his breath. Which surprised him at first, since he assumed all people who smoked were heavily addicted and didn’t regard self-care. But Shuichi seems to shower devoutly. Always smelling like vanilla and fresh coffee grounds.

His shirts always have some stain on it, mostly paint smudges or charcoal fingerprints. Sometimes grease, other things from food components. Kokichi doesn’t mind, when he lays on him he picks at it, all out of mindless curiosity. He used to think Shuichi was incapable of having flaws, which made him uncomfortable. Like he was in the eyes of a god. Some being who can judge him and his mistakes, and decide whether he likes it, or hates it.

Shuichi isn’t an angel, or a god. He’s human.

Finding out that he swears, smokes, has a serious caffeine addiction, snaps when he’s talking to certain people, and paints gruesome worlds with horrific depictions of mental illnesses. It all made Kokichi feel okay. It was comforting. At that realization, Kokichi had to accept the fact he’d fallen for a horrendously tortured artist. 

It’s only been a month. He just tells Rantaro that Shuichi is a special kind of person.

At that moment, the taller boy returned to his side, extending a hand and gently taking a hold of his fingers, Shuichi was silently asking him to sit with him on the couch. 

At this point, it wasn’t something he needed to ask anymore. Kokichi shifted off the chair and put his good foot down first. Hoping it would relieve the sharp pull of his opposite heel. It was wishful thinking when he winced once the pressure was applied. This didn’t go unnoticed by Shuichi, who didn’t say a thing until they were settled on the long sectional couch that curved around the room in a half square.

“Did you hurt your foot?” He asked curiously, gesturing to the foot that he in recent hours began despising. “You’ve been sort of limping here and there.”

Kokichi sighed, sinking into Shuichi as he kicked up his wounded foot over his knee and reached to pull off his long fuzzy sock. “...I stepped on a broken ceramic plate.” He stated dryly. Revealing his heel that had three peeling bandaids applied haphazardly. As little as the cut looked, the shard must have dug in much deeper than he first anticipated. 

Shuichi reached over to try and push one of the worn bandaids back onto his foot. Only for it to slink off again uselessly. “Hm.” Shuichi eyed the small injury with a pause. “Would you like me to get you new bandaids?” 

Kokichi sat up to free him. “That would be nice.” Without another word, Shuichi nodded and got up to get new bandaids.

* * *

The hammock became a popular center of Shuichi’s recent paintings.

Kokichi has taken to enjoying his time rocking himself on the hammock, and Shuichi lets him set out his phone and headphones. Soon the headphones were left out when Shuichi asked what sort of music he listened to. So, as of late, slow piano music has been drifting into the air. Accompanied by the comforting sound of rain and soft lyrics. Like the gentle press of a piano key. Ringing out as a false sound of thunder rumbles and cracks across the audio.

Consoling solace. There was hardly any place Kokichi would rather be. Within the view of Shuichi, who had paint within his reach, Kokichi could close his eyes and find peace with the overwhelming thought of death. 

Shuichi would have painted him so many times, that even when he fades, even when he’s gone, he’ll always have a picture of him. So he doesn’t have to miss him too badly. 

Kokichi felt a burn wash across the back of his neck at the thought. Like he’s guilty of it, even when it carelessly crossed his mind. The empty pit in his gut twisted in cruel reminders that he has a time limit. Still, he couldn’t help but clench his sweaty hands, that oddly enough felt cold, and steel himself against the thoughts.

Still unsettled, rigid, disturbed to a _chilling degree—_

His whole body jolted when something out of his line of vision crashed with a metallic echo to the stone stained floor. Followed with a heavy sound of something splattering, like a sick splash colliding with stone from a height.

Kokichi had snapped his eyes open and jerked up. His breath catching and the world dipping for a moment. Panicked as he was, he blinked away the black spots peppering his vision and looked to where Shuichi was stumbling back away from a shelf. 

“Ah… I’m—I’m sorry.” Shuichi stammered. Not even sparing Kokichi a glance, he stared distastefully at the vat of rich crimson red paint. Spilled, and spreading over the floor. Seeping outward as the substance drained from the paint bucket it came from. As he bent over to pick up the bucket of paint, he turned to reach for an already soiled rag in an attempt to do damage control. 

Kokichi chuckled dryly as he got a good look at him. Vibrant dark scarlet paint spilled down Shuichi’s shirt. Soaking his front, and dripping heavily onto his pants. His hands were smudged in the same murderous color, a shade ranging from ruby to maroon. His face was reddened to a chalky rose as he scrubbed at his hands so he didn’t cover the things he touched in soppy paint.

“Why, Saihara,” Kokichi slowly rose to his feet. Assuming the painting hour was over. Seeing as the mess Shuichi accidentally created was rather chaotic. “You look like you’ve murdered someone.” 

Shuichi replied with a dry laugh. Hurrying to grab his roll of paper towels he had over by his slop sink. Kokichi walked over to observe the splatter effect the momentum had on the floor. Specks and drips were sent everywhere. And stained the top of Shuichi’s sock covered feet. 

“How’d this happen?” He asked, unsure of how to help.

“I, ah, went to put away the paint and hit that one over.” He explained, running a clean rag under the faucet at his sink. “I tried to save it, but… I failed.”

“Clearly.” Kokichi confirmed with sarcasm. Shuichi seemed to be leaving the large spill on the floor alone. Making him quirk an eyebrow up at him, Shuichi was dabbing the rag he had at his clothes with the paint rolling off his shirt, bleeding into his pants. He hadn’t so much as touched his shirt. “Aren’t you going to clean that up?” He asked, unhelpfully gesturing to the spill.

Shuichi glanced at him briefly before focusing on blotting out the red swatches on his pants. “Oh, no. The area here is concrete, I’ll let it dry so I can scrape it up later.”

“Not gonna use water and soap or something? Scraping seems like work.” Before he could go ahead and assume that would be helpful, Shuichi laughed.

“No, no, using water would spread it out more. It’d make a bigger mess.” He chuckled weakly. He seemed to be recalling that fact from past experiences. Kokichi looked away from the spill and stood beside Shuichi as he kept rinsing the rag. Still dripping over the floor, Kokichi could see the poor artist staring at a larger towel halfway across the room. “Could you, um, get that…” He gestured to that stained and used towel. “I don’t want to drip everywhere.”

“Sure thing. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you dragged a body across the room, now would we?” He smiled softly, leaving his side to pick up the towel that was hanging stiffly on a drying rack. He quickly returned to his side, passing him the towel. 

He patted down the front of his shirt to prevent any drips from falling to the ground. He sighed, looking down at the mess all down his front. “..I liked this shirt too.” He seemed disappointed. With his eyebrows pinched and his lips puckered in a displeased way. 

“Ah, so it doesn’t come out?” Kokichi asked, soon feeling foolish once again when Shuichi chuckled, lacking humor. 

“Unfortunately not…” He grabbed a bit of his shirt that was sticking to his chest. Pulling forward, so it wasn’t pushed against his skin. “...It’s an oil-based paint. I could get it out by running it under cold water but ah,” Shuichi winced. “This color isn’t too kind on light-tinted shirts. Even if I get it mostly out, there will still be a notable stain.”

Kokichi felt bad. Shuichi did seem to like to paint in that shirt. Even if it had a couple measly stains around his sleeves, an obnoxiously large bold stain like this ruined it successfully. He looked up as Shuichi threw the towel over the edge of his slop sink with a defeated sigh. “Time for your very daily shower?” Kokichi asked, getting a light-hearted chuckle out of him.

“I don’t shower that often.” He replied, leaning against the sink to reach down in order to slip off his stained socks. “I… just like to feel clean.” He stuffed one sock inside the other and kept it in his hands as he looked to the door. “I’ll only be a moment. You can stay wherever you like.”

“You’re going to turn into a fish.” Kokichi teased, following him out. He squished his own cheeks together and made his best guppy face as Shuichi climbed the stairs. “You’re gonna grow gills and fins, too.” He threw in, enjoying the gentle mellow sound of his warm giggles. 

Kokichi stopped as Shuichi went into his room to pull out a clean, fresh-smelling pair of clothes. Just across the hall was the bathroom with a big walk-in shower inside. He always felt like he was violating privacy when he entered the upstairs. Shuichi’s room, where his bed was, his clothes, his books, his objects. He’s never been inside. 

Like being a child, forbidden from going into your friends parents bedroom. Forbidden from running in the halls. Forbidden from laughing in a silent crowd. Things that sting, your life of coaxing yourself into thinking it’s bad just stays and ends up paying its dues. 

He smiled awkwardly when Shuichi told him once again he’d be only a minute. He watched him close the bathroom door behind him, he heard the soft sounds of his footfall padding to where the shower was. The subtle sound of clothes being placed down, followed by the sound of the dirtied ones being set aside. 

Kokichi lingered there, like a creep, until he heard the shower turn on. 

He no sooner retreated back downstairs. Despite himself, he stood in the kitchen. Looking at one of Shuichi’s favorite snacks. 

Almost mindlessly, his thin pallid fingers slid around the small container. His eyes flicking over to the calories labeled on the side. At the sight, his palms grew hot. The mass of anxiety burrowed in his stomach like a sickening disease roiled in his gut. Pinching his throat and stiffening his hand. Hushly whispering in his ears like a venomous snake to set it down. 

_Set it down._ It says. 

_It’ll make you sick._ It says.

_You’ll feel nauseous_. It says.

Kokichi knows. His face burns with the lack of courage. The cold chills sink their knowing fangs into his torso and jerk firmly. Yet he doesn’t put it down. Against the turmoil raging in his stomach, or more accurately in his head. He tore off the top of the yogurt and dug out a spoon from the drawers. Forcing himself to return to the counter, sitting himself and his fragile, skinny, snappable body down. 

_“If—If I had to choose between that feeling, and suffering from the jabbing hunger pangs, I’d rather just starve.”_

That’s what he had claimed. He stated that, without question. Kokichi angrily stared at the cup of vanilla yogurt. Tasteless, simple, soft and mushy. He dug the spoon into the top with little will. The fire aflame in his abdomen clenched lustfully, he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to cope. Coping by causing real pain to bubble up in his lips. There's not much on the spoon. Not much at all. 

His Photographer's words filtered into his mind like poison gas. A toxic haze of nauseating amendments. A backwash of the things he’s doing wrong, insult, mistake, fault. His wrist feels cramped, but he lifts the spoon to his shut lips. Thinking of smoldering flaws. Aching failures. He might gag.

_Set it down. Set it down._

Kokichi opens his mouth and sets the bottom of the cold spoon on his tongue. Closing his mouth over it. He dragged his teeth over the metal of the handle. Soon slipping the spoon out, and holding the wad of yogurt behind his pale lips. 

_Spit it out._

_Reject it_. 

_“If you stop eating, you’ll starve, and I personally don’t want to see you only in my paintings.”_

Kokichi swallowed thickly, half of it was saliva, the other that tasteless yogurt Shuichi loved so much. He squeezed the cup in his hands, the plastic crinkled, as he dug the spoon in again. Placing the bland, cold snack in his mouth. A searing shiver writhed up his spine, and his stomach churned, contemplating what it was getting.

The ache of yearning for something solid sinks in and he forces another painful swallow. Wondering why Shuichi even bothered to paint something as hideous as him. He’s probably lying like Kokichi is.

_“I do care about you.”_

“Liar.” Kokichi hissed. Snapping back at his own thoughts. Hating the way his headache panged back to bleeding at his temples with building pressure. He can’t admit he falls for the way that soothing voice comes back. When he thinks of him, being patient, being kind, being so bearably understandable. He swallowed again.

_“I care about you so much that I want you to eat on your own volition.”_

He is, he’s trying. Ever since he heard that it struck such an uncomfortable chord in him. He wants to be better, he really, really doesn’t want this blaze that screamed beneath his skin and boiled his thinning blood. He shoved the spoon in his mouth stubbornly, not caring if the other half of him protested. 

The natural part of him hungrily begged and pleaded for more. Wishing he eats more, to consume more to the point where he isn’t throbbing with the sob eliciting pain each night and each morning. The other half of him gags.

The sudden lurch is something he’s too familiar with. His stinging eyes flit down to the cup only to find it empty. Sickly satisfied, his clammy hands move to set down the spoon and container, but what he feels instead is warm fingers slipping it out of his hand and setting it aside for him. “...You didn’t have to force yourself.” Comes his welcoming voice.

Kokichi blinks rapidly. The wetness at the corner of his eyes tends to mean he riled himself up too much. Too much thinking. Just too much. 

Shuichi stood next to him. One hand in his as he softly asked if he wanted to lay down on the couch for a moment. For once Kokichi is too numb to nod. The artist doesn’t make a move without his permission, but, perhaps this time he just wants to know what he needs. So he mutters, in a quiet, shame-filled voice, “...tell me I’m okay.” Lie, just lie. 

Shuichi didn’t smile. But he whispered those very words. He saw the worry and panic in his violet eyes, and complied with no further hesitance. Shuichi hushedly told him he’s okay, that he’s in his home, that he’s perfectly fine. Slowly, he guided Kokichi to settle on the couch. Careful to not rush him, careful to offer his embrace kindly.

Once Shuichi was beside him, and opened his arms. Kokichi felt his heart melt and weaken. He wasn’t at all stable, so when he put his arms around him, needy, and seeking that desired stability, he received it. 

“...Take it easy.” He hushed, feeling him shake with cold tremors under his arms. To help, Shuichi traced his back. Comfortingly applying pressure to his back and kneaded up to his achy shoulders. “...You still have so much time to get better. Don’t force it, we have time…” He whispered every word genuinely. As if he knew Kokichi feared death.

“...Ho-... How do you understand…?” Kokichi muttered, his face buried into Shuichi's loose and warm shirt. Smelling the fresh scent of sweet vanilla and coffee grounds. Tender, warm, like a heated weighted blanket. Ebbing all the anxieties away by the soothing pressure. “...Why do you understand that—this need?”

The need to slow it all down. To swallow softly, to nimbly, subtly breath. To comfort, and not force. To love instead of punish. To whisper instead of yell. To hug instead of push. “...Tell me, tell me what you went through.” He breathed, with lips pressed against his shirt, his chest constricting, and pulse hammering. 

The knowledge escapes him. Similar to an adult comforting a child during a war. Where all the child hears is that everything is fine. That the winds will take the dreary clouds away. They don’t hear the echoes of the gunshots. They don’t see the lifeless bodies draped over the side of the tow truck hauling them out of sight. 

Kokichi remembers Shuichi’s paintings.

War. It was plastered and splattered over the canvases. Countless pictures of what the inside of his world was undergoing. Blood, injury, absolute brutal and hellish agony. He never knew panic and sheer terror could be depicted in any sort of image. It’s horrific-looking, scary almost. But so heartachingly accurate. 

Realistically, no one's dying. No one is being murdered. No one is being towed away dead. But in order to transmit mental and emotional anguish, portraying it as Shuichi chose, he was unfairly victorious in getting that wretched message across. 

Shuichi fell still. Silently, deathly, still. Kokichi felt his hands freeze, and his gentle breath hitched. A certain fear washed through his chest as he worriedly shifted his head up so his cheek was beside his neck. He felt him swallow thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly. “...sorry.” He muttered feebly, trying to do damage control. “...I’m sorry, you don’t have to say it. I’m sorry.”

With no other response, Kokichi inched himself up. Seeing Shuichi’s eyes still open. Something else was inside them. Much like that daze he enters when he’s stroking gentle marks as he paints Kokichi, except it’s darkened. Like he’s watching a soul jerking movie, where the events unfolding are so horribly disturbing you can only sit there dumbfounded. Shaken to your core. 

“...hey.” He breathed, ignoring the uncomfortable twist in his abdomen. “Sa… Shuichi. Come back to me, hey…” He reached up to weave his fingers in his damp wet hair. Strands stuck to his fingertips. He combed through the pieces that hung down his frozen expression. Pale, and soft.

Finally, Shuichi blinked. His arms came up to pull Kokichi back gently, as a small silent message to give him a little space. Kokichi sat back, inching further away in guilt. He shouldn't have demanded that Shuichi tell him. He shouldn’t have wanted to hear it. The paintings were enough, those horribly beautiful paintings were enough.

Yet he still couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. 

“...sorry.” He repeated, shamefully sitting perched in front of him. Shuichi still had a slack hand on his shoulder, but soon that slinked off and Shuichi rubbed his eyes. 

“...It’s okay.” He reassured when he looked back up at him. But Kokichi flashed him a look of doubt. “Really, it’s fine.” He tried, reaching for Kokichi’s hand to run his thumb over his knuckles. “I… I just remembered something is all. I ah…”

“Shuichi. It’s fine. Just—Just ignore me.” He cut in. Still staring at him as if his eyes were still coated in uncertainty and fear. “Don’t force yourself.” His voice is quiet. Soaked in guilt. 

“No, no, it’s fine.” Shuichi wore a smile, his lips stretching up to appear welcoming. But it only hit wrong when it faltered slightly. Twitching with the weight of a lie. “...It’s just, I’m recovering, and I’ve been doing really good in recent weeks. I haven’t—…” His golden eyes darted to his fingers, which were intertwined with Kokichi’s. His voice is heavy, firm, and low. As if it physically pained him to speak. “...used certain outlets.” He breathed. “Recently.” The last word was thrown in to fix his words and make them true.

Shuichi’s eyes only shift from discomfort to reassurance. He took Kokichi’s hand and tugged him back closer. “...When people found out what I was doing, they did things I wish they hadn’t.” He let Kokichi lay back against him. His head cradled against his chest as his arms drift to fit around him snugly. “...One thing I wish they did, was to give me the freedom to choose for myself.”

Kokichi puttered out a breath. Feeling firmly secure in the hold he was buried in. “...Just like you want me to eat when I want to.” He muttered, feeling utterly tricked. As if he’d fallen into a clawing trap when he grabbed the yogurt. Because he did exactly what Shuichi wanted. Even if the tortured artist earnestly told him not to undergo it by force. 

“Yes…” Shuichi whispered. “...The people who monitored me treated me as if I didn’t know any better. Like I was too sick in my head to comprehend what was good for me.” His words hit colorlessly. Dark, dismal-ish statements that had raw truth attached. “...The hard part is the pain that comes in certain surges. Sometimes it’s… so much. Too much. And anything, absolutely _anything_ would do if it meant it would all _stop_.”

His voice shook with the intensity he held behind each exhale of air. “...People don’t like being in pain.” He stated softly. Kokichi can feel his heart beating rapidly, thumping with earnestly. “...so who am I to stop you from choosing a path that avoids all that pain?”

In a way, his admissions hurt. Kokichi shifted so he could look up at him. It seemed the action of holding him so close was comforting him. As Shuichi let his words fade and fall silent, he squeezed him, as if acknowledging his presence, and finding solidity in it. “...That’s a dangerous line you dance on.” Kokichi murmured. “...You encourage me to eat, but you want me to avoid enduring the pain that comes with it. So which is it, Saihara?”

At this Shuichi let his eyes close. His teeth nervously running along his already bitten lip. Red, and swollen with slightly raised skin. It’s thin and easily splittable. Shuichi only ever sucks on his bottom lip, occasionally his teeth sink in deeper when he’s nervous. “...I told you before.” And that’s all he says.

Kokichi turns his head away. Yes, Shuichi has. He believes that Kokichi wants to live, and he does. This seems cruel because living with clouding anxiety seems impossible. 

_“...I care about you, meaning I care about when you feel uncomfortable. I will encourage you to eat, but under no circumstances will I force you to eat. You’d just get sick, and it’d be counterproductive.”_

He’s leaving it up to Kokichi. Somehow It’s comforting to know no one is going to sit him down, and intimidate him to chew, and swallow. 

After the layer of silence coated them into soundless action, Kokichi sat up a little. Shuichi’s arms naturally loosened to let him do so. His violet eyes flicker to the collar of Shuichi’s soft shirt. Lax fabric, and comfortable. His slim pale fingers reached forward to trace the edge of it. Shuichi still has his eyes closed, his lips seem to have lost their rosy color the more their conversation has progressed.

Kokichi curiously, but hesitantly, trailed his fingers up his neck. At this, Shuichi tilts his head back into the cushions to allow him easier access. Kokichi felt across his tough skin, prodding lightly, and hardly squeezing the veins and arteries that run up into his head. He felt the pulse under his fingertips, stable, consistent, there. And ever so real.

He dropped his hands and Shuichi still hasn’t looked at him. So, he placed his nimble hand over top of his left shoulder. His thumb wiggling its way under his soft shirt. Followed by his pointer finger, he slowly ebbed the shirt over his shoulder, relieving pearly white skin. But the fabric is stretchy, and when he pulled down further, he found what he thought he would. 

An old thick scar ran along his upper arm below his shoulder. He leaned over to peek down his sleeve and he saw more. He knew they stopped at the crease of his elbow. Shuichi always pushes up his sleeves to his elbows when painting. But around his wrists, Shuichi wears rubber bands. Kokichi felt like a fool for not noticing why he wore them.

Shuichi tends to slip his fingers between his wrist and the band to pull and snap. When he’s panicked, anxious, or stressed.

Having looked at the healing slits in his skin, he noticed that one's tinting brown was older. Starting up higher on his upper arm. Further down, they gain more color, filling in with a tanned red, or faded pink. Some are smaller than others, some look hesitant. By the short quick dashes, compared to the desperate long streaks. The weight in Kokichi’s heart doubled.

“...Saihara-Chan has battle scars.” He muttered, gently pulling up his shirt back over his untanned skin. 

When he looked up, Shuichi locked eyes with him. Shame is embedded into his expression, with his face paler, his lips parted but teeth clenched, and eyes almost squinty. Kokichi couldn’t stop himself from reaching his bony thin hands around to cup Shuichi’s warm and supple cheeks. “...It’s okay.” He whispered, “...they’re okay.” 

Shuichi blinked a couple of times. “...I should have never done it.”

Kokichi chuckled lightly, finding the bubbly sound nearly foreign in his throat. “...Who taught you to say that?” Shame is still pooling in his eyes. He feels stiff under his fingertips, rigid, and dealing with a vat of self-conflicting thoughts. 

He doesn’t answer, he just turns his head to the side to avoid looking at him. “...They aren’t something I’m proud of.” 

Kokichi hummed. Suddenly feeling the knot in his stomach twist with a jerk. But he bit his lip and ignored it. Digestion is annoying when it’s so prominent. Still wishing for more, greedily pleaded and begging for more. He fit his palms over Shuichi’s upper arms and rubbed in a soothing way, just like Shuichi had done to his shoulders. 

“...They aren’t something to be ashamed of either.” Kokichi said softly. 

Shuichi responded with a light whine. His expression tightening and his hands coming up to slip around Kokichi’s small torso. He sat up more, dragging him into a needy embrace. Squeezing him tight enough to feel the constriction in his lungs. It’s done in a want to feel him, that without a doubt, he’s still here. Kokichi didn’t mind it. 

The hour that followed, Kokichi had left briefly to retrieve an item from Shuichi’s studio. Which, had everything inside ranging from simple Crayola crayons to extravagant paints. He returned with a little box he spotted earlier when Shuichi was wiping the paint off himself. He sat beside Shuichi who moved into a proper sitting up position. Nervously pulling the rubber band, as if addicted to the action of grabbing, pulling, and releasing. In a calming pattern, over and over again.

Kokichi reached over to gently pick up his wrist that he had been fiddling with, and grabbed a tool from the colorfully printed container. He uncapped the marker, it's his favorite shade of blue. He began to scrawl little doodles onto his wrist. “They won’t be good looking,” he said, trying to summon his best motor skills into the kitty cat he was attempting to create. “But it’s supposed to be sentimental, so you have to like it.”

That provoked Shuichi to laugh. It sounded shaky, a little wet with the underlined sob that was stifled. Kokichi scribbled on a butterfly, knowing all too well the subject matter had caused Shuichi to remember a certain deal of pain. He saw it burn like fire dancing in his eyes. The phantom feeling of it all rushing back, encircling him all over again. 

Kokichi understood. He understood that it all comes back again. Like a dam breaking free and you’re trying so desperately trying to keep your head above water. Yet still getting yanked under, and jerked where air escapes you. You see every moment again, scorching your mind, then at some point the water disappears and you’re left heaving on the soaked ground. Gasping while choking on the backlash. 

Severe trauma will do that to you. Though he hates saying _severe trauma_ because it sounds like it’s measuring one's pain with others. As if it ranges from mild, medium, to tragic. As if the person who was just resuscitated knew. Pain is pain. And trauma is just anything that overwhelms the ability to functionally cope. 

“Hey Saihara,”

“...Hm?” 

“What’s your favorite animal?”

He looked up at the artist allowing Kokichi to push his loose sleeve upward so he could access his upper arm. His forearm was covered in flowers, little animals, and bugs. But the kind of bugs people like. Like butterflies, and ladybugs, and caterpillars. 

Shuichi still sat stiffly where Kokichi held onto him gently. His wide innocently seeming eyes fixated on him. “...um. Ah, you already drew a few cats.”

Kokichi huffed and began to draw a few more. “You’re so predictable. At least you don’t like aardvarks or something, because I can’t fathom drawing those.” He scribbled on a black and orange kitten, right over one of the older scars. 

Shuichi watched him do it. Slightly giggling from the squishy tip of the marker pressing into his marked over skin. Kokichi traced over every one before placing a little animal on it, drawing a few shapes like hearts. “...this isn’t healthy for the skin.” Shuichi commented after getting used to the light tickle of the marker. “The pigment gets absorbed.”

Kokichi paused but clicked his tongue in response as he continued. “I guess you have three days to live. Poor Saihara-Chan, poisoned by me.” 

A misty silence washed through them as Kokichi finished giving him his ‘medals of honor’. He capped the coloring supply and neatly slid them back into the box. And, simply just to annoy Shuichi later, he didn’t put them in color order. 

Discomforted by the gnawing sensation eroding his gut, he leaned against Shuichi who was tracing his delicate fingers over his drawings. “...Thank you.” He whispered. Kokichi watched his dim golden eyes glaze over the colorful marks, a weak smile carved and whittled onto his once quivering lips. “...I’ll cherish them.” 

They stayed like that, Shuichi tracing his new additions while Kokichi leaned comfortably against him. Squeezing his eyes tight to ignore the feeling that almost seemed foreign, like a worm roiling in his stomach. Yogurt isn’t a light substance, it has weight, and the feeling made him shift uncomfortably. At the motion, Shuichi slipped a caring arm around him, just to hold him still.

The nausea is one of those heart-hammering patterns he’s gotten used to. His skin feels hot, and the heat settles on the surface and is worse under his clothes, where it’s hotter. He pressed his head against Shuichi’s side. Coping with the feeling, he knew he wouldn’t need to lock himself in the bathroom, he didn’t eat enough to do that.

It’s still unfairly distressing.

He couldn’t help but remember that his thighs never touched when he sat down, any fat was diminished and his face felt tight. It’s a chilling thought, even if he sees it every night after a cold shower. Instead of succumbing to his own self-demeaning tendencies, he looked at Shuichi. Who had suffered through something brutal, and understood how to handle him and his pain.

“Saihara…”

The artist hesitantly looked down at him. His arm around him seemed to stiffen since Shuichi caught the edge in his voice. The depth that comes with a question that would make them both uncomfortable. The thought of it made Kokichi sink deeper into his sideways hold. Never meeting his eyes. He took a deep breath in and held it behind his pale lips. His one hand around Shuichi’s back clenched at the soft fabric. He exhaled.

“Have you ever considered dying?”

* * *

Recovery can be a word that mocks the vain existence of destruction. 

The destruction that carves certain paths in your mind, that triggers your body to believe it’s endangered when it really isn't. Kokichi learned to despise the word, _recovery_. The stigma that sticks to that term is false, but for an innocent reason; people don’t understand. 

Contrary to popular belief, mental recovery does not mean returning to a normal state of health, mind, or strength. As it may appear that way, and as much as those coping would desire for that to be true. Recovery is not reversal of the damage. It is learning to live and function with the new additional pain in your life. In a sense, someone would return to a _stable_ state. 

Shuichi had paled when Kokichi asked the question. Which had made his heart skip in beats, his palms growing warmer with sudden regret and nerves. He never took back the question. He watched the thoughts pass through Shuichi’s mind, the emotions bore through his wet eyes, and his mouth had stammeringly opened and closed. Trying to pull together an answer that was socially acceptable. 

Except Kokichi doesn’t care for what’s socially acceptable. It seemed that Shuichi had been belittled for those thoughts. Shamed. Disgraced. And made to mortify the listener.

The artist never replied honestly. Instead, he spat out what he’d been taught to say. What he’d been coaxed and pressed into stating. 

_“I- no, that’s just a permanent solution to a—temporary problem.”_

There was a break in his words. A nervous hiccup. A held out note of a single word. Shuichi was an open book written in a foreign language. An explanation right before Kokichi, and yet he couldn’t decipher what should be easy. The tortured and pained artist looked as if he betrayed his own words.

Kokichi wanted to shake the truth from him, and squeeze him tight to convey to any degree that he didn’t have to lie. Instead, he sat still beside him, his fist still clenching at the fabric of his shirt. Shuichi said that in a perfect excuse to shut down the question. Since if he states what's thought to be a truth, then it’s okay to move on.

_“Is the trauma you have to live with, temporary?”_

When he had asked that, Shuichi fell silent. The sentence was contradictory in a sense. The trauma that he has to live with can’t be temporary if he has to live out his life with it. So really, there was only one answer. To which the artist had shaken his head. Kokichi hummed and relaxed his hand from squeezing his shirt. 

_“...I think whoever told you that had underestimated the severity of your pain. And all they wanted was you to not assume death would fix your problems. Truth is, yeah, it will. But it leaves a bloody trail of pain behind you. It dislocates the hearts of those who cared. All they desperately want is to avoid your demise.”_

It was a mouthful. His own passionate spigot of words. Kokichi has considered death, but only because he felt like he was dying. His body was rotting, and he didn’t believe it was recoverable. If he had a choice to make it all go away with the snap of his fingers, he’d make it go away. 

He had at that point reached for Shuichi’s hand, and let the artist squeeze his fingers so tight that the color drained. That was a silent confession. 

_Yes,_ it said, _yes I’ve considered it._

What followed was silence. They were laid against one another, finding solace within his body, within his breath, and within the fact that Shuichi didn’t give up. He went through the fiery blaze and dealt with the hideously wretched burns. He was drowned and each time he came back up to breath, even if it was for a mere moment. He fell from a fatal height, and denied himself the relief of breaking, and refused to shatter upon impact. 

Shuichi was strong. Kokichi felt all the weaker.

Even if those who kept him here used shame and guilt to manipulate him. Kokichi was glad they reserved such a kind and talented boy just for him. Even if Shuichi seemingly lives by himself, with lack of adults, he could easily do something to take the ache away. But he doesn’t. And Kokichi admired him for his resilience. 

He stared at his ceiling. Lying brittle on his stiff mattress. He got home hours ago, reflecting with regret and satisfaction on the day. He managed to avoid his Photographer, the woman who has started eyeing him with a strange glance of concern and underlying disgust. Though, he knows she isn’t disgusted with him. It’s more of a scowl at the shape his body succumbed to. 

She’s been home more often. Her camera was still dangling from her neck as she looked pensive out the window. Contemplating another setup and theme of her next shoot. Kokichi used to sit at the table and watch her think, since she truly was talented, but she just harbored a cold heart. Someone like her has suffered immense relationship issues. Hence why he doesn’t know his father, why she stopped going out, why she’s so cold to supposed love interests. 

“Kokichi.” 

He jerked himself upright at his name. A cold chill rolling down his back as he stared at his Photographer standing in his doorway. The anxiety he has for this woman is past based. Like Shuichi, their nerves bubble up because of what's already happened. Not what he suspects might occur. He swallowed thickly, masking his discomfort with an off-putting smile.

“Yes?”

She eyed him, that look falling over her face again. “I ordered dinner.”

A cold breath of worry breathed down his neck. “So you did.” 

“You’re coming to eat.” 

“So I am…” She doesn’t typically get a meal for him unless they have something to discuss over. Like a meeting. Otherwise, she lets him make his own food. Unfortunately he hasn’t been keeping to a healthy schedule, and he knows. Now, so does she. “I’m not hungry.” He said, half lying. He doesn’t feel hungry, but he knows he is. “Maybe later.” 

She didn’t avert her eyes. “I’m not giving you a choice. Come now, or I’ll take your phone away.”

The threat made him snort. He feels anxious, but the threat was so stereotypical of a parent. As if he cared for his phone as much as others might. As if she was taking on a parental role, and actually cared. “All for not feeling hungry?” He jested, sitting back on his bed, watching his Photographer’s eyes shift over him. 

“I know you’re starving yourself. Which, I can’t fathom why. Maybe it’s just to spite me. But it isn’t as if you’ll tell me. Come, now.” 

She stood there. Unmoving. Still as a stone statue. She was waiting, and he knew she wouldn’t leave unless he got up. So he did and accepted his inevitable fate. 

When he arrived at the table, his stomach twisted at the sight of Chinese takeout. Something he doesn’t hate, and she knew that. The meal isn’t light, the noodles are heavy, and it will make him sick if he eats a carton of its carbs. He lingered there for too long, staring at the doughy dumplings and rice. His Photographer pulled a chair back for him, so he sat down.

He first picked up a fortune cookie, trying to buy time, he took it from its wrapper and cracked it open. Reading the dippy message typed across the white paper. 

**_[ The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. ]_ **

Ha. Kokichi discarded the cookie part on the table. His Photographer stood hovering over him. Wearily, he looked up at her. The intense glare of her eyes were the two ocular lenses he nearly trembled under. The pair of eyes that had judged and corrected him from the moment he could comprehend the language of her tongue. “Eat noodles and rice.” 

She placed the specific cartons before him. Along with the packaged chopsticks. He couldn’t stop the grimace from working onto his features as he opened the rice with disdain. “...All of it?” He asked, ripping open his chopsticks with his clumsy fingers and picking at the grains of cooked, squishy rice. 

“Yes. All of it. I don’t know much about anorexia, but you’ve taken it too far. Everyone thinks I’m starving you.”

_It’s not that_. Kokichi wanted to retort. But his Photographer lived with his lying habits, she won’t believe him. “...Then say I’m mentally deranged.” He replied dully. His voice was devoid of emotion as he placed a clump of rice on his tongue. Lightly sucking on it in his mouth to make it easier to swallow, so he could tell himself it wasn’t that much. 

“Then they claim that I’m not taking care of you properly.”

_You aren't_. “Not something you can help.” 

“I can.” She declared, her voice hard and her eyes boiling like he was the origin of her problems. “Just eat.” 

Kokichi looked at the cartons of food he had to chew through, to work through, to suffer through. Each bite will be tasteless, he knows it will. Each bite will be chewed, and masticated, so he prolongs each rough swallow. He at least has a cup of water. To wash each one down, to make it feel like liquid, so it’s bearable. 

He took a scoop at the noodles.

In this scenario. He’s the starving hungry little mouse. Reaching for the cheese that sits just before him. Taunting him, and laughing at him as he chews his first bite to paste. Before taking an uncomfortably large gulp of water to wash it down. He can just imagine the onslaught of burning pain he has to endure. His Photographer won’t try to understand him like Shuichi. Ah, his beloved, and hurting Shuichi. 

He apologized to him from where he sat. Because, unfortunately for him, he isn’t the second mouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the problem isn't temporary. Sometimes the trauma is a life long shadow that follows you around. I wanted to entertain Shuichi's pain too because he has troubles as well, but he's farther along his recovery path than Kokichi is. Sorry if the ending is a bit flat, I felt it was appropriate to the mood? ah well, if you enjoyed and read it all, thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " I fell in love with you because of a million tiny things you never knew you were doing. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I wasn't gonna leave this freakin fic on that kinda ending._ But I did it, I thought lots about it, and I typically would apologize if it isn't as good, but I did my very best. And I can't apologize for that. Enjoy!

This feeling was familiar.

That unfiltered feeling of being completely and utterly out of control. Where your hand is forced upon something, even in a jerkish unsteady motion. Where your comfort doesn’t really matter, just as long as you complete the task ahead of you, then it’s fine. Then you can stop. Then you can breathe. 

His mind forced up an image, like a silent movie playing on an occasionally glitching screen. He remembered one of the first times he felt this detached. Forbidden to run and do his very much needed damage control. He was young too, but unlike now, he wasn’t the one who was forcing himself to endure this much strain while another looked on.

He could feel, even now, the slim and talented fingers glide down his jaw, moving his face to be positioned in a certain way, in a specific pose, for only a split second. Before narrowed eyes came out from behind the camera and the experienced hands came back to encircle him again. Sitting him down, standing him up, undressing and redressing him. 

Not caring if the air was cold before instructing him to remove his shirt. Not caring if his skin was doused in chilled goosebumps before touching his bare arms. Moving him, because he was young, he didn’t know any better, and couldn’t do it himself. It didn’t matter if he felt raw and violated, unsheltered, and stripped. As long as his eyes burned once the flash scorched his image onto paper, then it was fine.

He had to be a certain width. A certain color. A certain way. Or else the eyes around him would be cast down, he would fail to approve anyone's wishes, and he would be left staring at the reflection that didn’t make the cut, all to  _ hate it. _

He was young when adults thought, because he was innocent, they could touch him. They would think he didn’t mind. However, he did, and it brings him back horribly rancid memories.

Smiling at 12, hearing his Photographer say he had the looks of a worthy model. Sitting there, at 13 thinking he could make his Photographer proud. Standing there, shoulders and back aching, skin decolored to white at 14, thinking he might be worth every moment of discomfort. Peppered in makeup at 15, hidden bags under his eyes, and a learned habit to ignore food, he’d cry thinking he could have ever been worth a damn.

Lying on a bathroom floor at 16, feeling his ribs jut out, his face sink, and life dwindle, thinking he might die in just a few weeks.

Kokichi will be turning 17 this summer. But the school year isn’t over just yet, and at the moment, he sat at a table with two empty cartons before him. With a stomach that wanted to make him regret ever setting a foot outside his room.

His Photographer forbade him from going to the bathroom afterward. Saying something about how he’s going to stay here for an hour so he can’t get rid of the food. Which was just cruel. The fact that she refused to listen to anything he had to say was another jab to his full stomach, that had shrunken and diminished. For him to take in two whole cartons of solid heavy food, then forbade him from alleviating the pain was just so _ cruel. _

His head burned with nausea, his blood running cold at the coiling spring burrowed beneath his stomach. Willing and ready to use his abdominal muscles to push all that he was forced to digest, back up. Hiccuping a couple of times to get rid of air bubbles pushing up between his ribs. But it did so very little in the grand scheme of it.

He wasn’t allowed to leave the table. His Photographer claimed he could leave when he wasn’t making such a big fuss over so little food. Which was a ruthless insult. Two cartons. Steamed compact rice, with thick carb-crafted noodles to match. His body hated him. The worst part is that he used to like that food, and now it may have become the thing that triggers his gag reflex.

He ducked his head in his folded arms, one hand gripping his wrist, digging his chewed-at nails into his white skin to cope with the hiccuping pain swirling inside him. He had to hide the dry heaving that came with overeating. And shield his face that contorted in pain every time he swallowed the spit on his tongue.

“You’re overreacting.” She commented, watching him fidget uncomfortably under her gaze. Hardly 30 minutes managed to slip by, and she hardly moved. Just a moment ago, she stood beside him, but she migrated to lean against the wall, her arms crossed. “At least tell me why you look so sick and I won’t make you eat anymore.”

Kokichi blanched, his skin bristling at the sound of her voice. “You—You were going to make me eat more.” He stated, his face pale with pain. Miraculously, his voice hardly shook, but maybe it was just the fact he was so furious with her. 

“Well, yes, two small cartons is hardly enough to be healthy.” 

With that, he was so unbearably close to chucking the rest at her. Instead, his wavering voice struck a new low as he kept his head down. The tears that pricked his eyes were nothing but the anger he could just hardly express. “And you think stuffing me like a pig is any healthier?” His hands nervously shifted to grip the edges of his seat. 

Nothing was stopping him from getting up and leaving. Nothing forcibly kept him here to suffer this much, through all his indescribable discomfort burning in his abdomen. Heavy, rotting, stale, he knew this process. He knew no matter how hard he could fight against himself, it wasn’t going to stay there. He’s too nervous. Too anxious. That’s what makes this so hard.

Because what's pinning him down in this seat was the overwhelming pressure his Photographer put on him. A firm invisible grip he couldn’t shake. She taught him this was a bad habit. Eating this much. Yet now she’s trying to shove it all down his throat?

“And starving yourself is a better idea?” She glared heartlessly. Not that she didn’t filter her anger, there just wasn’t any anger to begin with. Lack of heart. Lack of feeling. Lack of emotion. 

“I’m supposed to eat small if I’m gonna eat this much.” He growled back, his teeth grinding to cope with the sensation in the back of his throat.

“This much? This much is much at all. You eat like a two-year-old, I think it’s time we change your diet.”

_ We? Aha. _ With all the strength he could muster in this state, he pushed himself up from his chair. Gripping the lip of the table while the edges of his vision fizzed out for a moment. “Quite frankly, I’ve stopped giving a damn about what you think. Because no matter what I do, it’s always wrong.” He spat. As much as he felt horrible, he’s never felt so sickeningly satisfied to say that to her. 

Of course, her expression hadn’t so much as changed. She only cares about how the majority felt, not him. “I don’t like that tone you’re taking with me. Haven’t I taught you to respect those older than you?” Her voice was dry. Empty. Colorless.

Kokichi rolled his eyes, not wanting to bother with her anymore. He can’t heal if he’s constantly in a place refueling the trauma he’s trying to outrun. He’s running in circles. Getting nowhere. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.” He stated, his voice cracked, but he’s hurt, and in pain, so he let it pass. “I’m coming back when you leave again.”

“I’ll be here for the next two weeks.”

He ignored her, leaving to trap himself in his room. He should have gone to the bathroom, to sit there to avoid making a mess. But the sick part of him said he deserved this pain and the discomfort rolling around inside him like a ball of fire waiting to explode. He turned his back on her, his hands clenching, teeth grinding, trying to expel nervous energy. 

He fitted himself back in his room. Quick to bolt his door, the lock was removed so many times that Kokichi gave up fixing it and applied his own latch.

Of course, she knocked. Asking him where he’d go. Pretending to care. 

_ Maybe she did care, maybe she was just a hurt human who was never taught to express love properly. But that doesn’t mean he should let himself suffer through her inexperience. _

He angrily told her he would go to his boyfriend's house. To which she fell silent, expressing that she didn’t think he’d ever get into a relationship. The comment only fueled the fire within his chest. To avoid spitting out something he’d regret, he ignored her. Like she had done to him for nearly his whole life. 

“I hope he makes you happy.”

It pained him. Because that’s all she ever said.

* * *

Kokichi hadn’t slept that night.

Tossing and turning with the horrible pain settled embedded into his abdomen. Breathing through the sharp pulls and nauseous jerks. He couldn’t distract himself, he ended up simply lying there riddled in the discomfort. Occasionally checking the time on his phone. The hours slipped by fast. But the pain ensued slowly.

He might have dozed off for a moment or two. Only to wake up to the same pain he was trying to ignore. Whenever it was, he fell asleep at five that morning and made it to the hour of six before waking up again. Catching his strained breath as he sat up from a rough nap.

He picked up his phone to call Shuichi. The minute he did so, and he listened to it ring a couple of times. A tight uncomfortable lump balled itself in his throat. There was something about waking up from a night of pain that felt different from just getting no sleep. Like soft prickling at the corners of his eyes, or the mild relief he relished in once it seemed the worse had passed.

That relief made him vulnerable. Because he’s so incredibly tired of it all.

By the time Shuichi picked up, he was on the verge of tears. 

Through a strained and wavering voice, he told him that he couldn’t deal with living in his home while his Photographer was here. It was unbearable, suffocating, and intoxicating him. Seeing her makes his skin jump and his heart pound. Once Shuichi caught the sob in his tone, he offered that he spend a couple of nights with him. Before Kokichi could even ask.

The artist stayed on the phone with him while he haphazardly packed a bag for a couple of nights. Kokichi thought the gesture was kind, and it was silly of him to find so much grounding reassurance in his voice. Calm and durable, soothing his worries. The shake in his hands dulled as he focused on the clothes he’d wear, and the toothbrush he should probably bring.

He told Shuichi he couldn’t bear the thought of going to school today, and Shuichi promised to stay home with him. But only today. Just hearing that was able to whittle away the nerves that kept jerking at the thought of his Photographer being by the door waiting to stare at him hollowly.

“...Saihara,” He whispered, he pulled on some mismatching socks, and was about to leave to retrieve his shoes by the door when he saw a certain someone in the kitchen. “...promise you’ll pretend this never happened...and I’m not actually an emotional mess?”

He heard the other hum softly. Contemplating whether he should accept it or not. “...how about we compromise and say that you’re taking a break for a bit? Mental health day. When it’s okay to be an emotional mess.”

“And I can pretend that I'm not all screwy.”

“If you want to. But I like you all screwy. That’s what makes you, you.” This got a light laugh out of Kokichi. A dry one, wobbling in the air with hesitance. But a laugh nonetheless. He always thought his laugh was ugly because everyone always made fun of it. Mocking him often. He doesn’t really care, but it did help him not laugh a lot. Because it was just easier to deal with the silence, than it was to listen to a bunch of people find him a hilarious punchline.

But Shuichi thought it was beautiful. He lets him know. Every time he’s smiling, laughing, Shuichi would look him in the eyes and sincerely tell him he was charming, and the sound of his laugh was attractive. Kokichi would claim he’s lying, but he honestly couldn’t find a single lie in his amber eyes.

Kokichi’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag, he made brief eye contact with his Photographer as he went to the front door. He pulled on his shoes and left. He didn’t look back. He might come back in a couple of days, but only to leave again. The cold handle of the doorknob was the last thing that resonated within his palm as he shut the door.

The lump in his throat failed to rub away the further he walked away from his house.

“...See you in a bit.” And Kokichi hung up.

* * *

The noise of his mind only became insufferable by the time he arrived. 

Shuichi opened the door, and unlike many times before, Kokichi took one step inside the welcoming home and opened his arms to him. Seeking Shuichi’s embrace he craved. Molding like clay in his palms. He dropped his bag after the door closed, and wrapped his arms around the artist’s torso. Those capable hands fell down his back, three fingers distinctly went to rub the spot between his shoulder blades. While kind words whispered into his ear.

Kokichi did nothing but hold him there. Paused by the front door, clinging to him, wondering if he would die before he ever got to truly savor this feeling. Shuichi did nothing but willingly held him. Patiently humming incoherent soft words to him. It’s what Kokichi needed, what he earnestly desired, a longing that felt heavy and painful in his chest, finally coming to fruition.

“...You look so tired.” Shuichi noted, his gentle and velvety tone was easing the tension Kokichi felt in his jaw. Clenching his teeth so hard to avoid crying, to avoid harping on what he dealt with all night long. Sand seemed to be ground into the corners of his eyes, and his face felt pale as if no blood warmed his cheeks. “...Do you want to lie down? Or do you want to talk?” 

His warm hand that was massaging his back withdrew to cup his cheek. Kokichi gazed up at him, feeling his thumb swiping under his eye where his frustrated tears started falling. “...you,” He murmured, using his slim index finger to tap the middle of his chest. “...talk to me.” His words were hushed, his throat closing up around them. Nearly breathless, smothered, choked.

He did. He brought Kokichi over to the couch, settling him down where he overall collapsed. Slumped against the cushions, holding his hand out for Shuichi to fill the place next to him. The artist did, he always did, taking his hands and curling his arms around him. Looping around his slim waist, leaning his head against the pillow beside Kokichi. And he talked, softly, steadily, wispily.

He talked about his recent artworks, describing the use of the colors in such detail that you would know by just hearing his experienced tone, that he was a creator. An artist who poured his heart into each stroke. Like he was bleeding over a canvas. Slipping in a sweet note that he was thinking about him early in the morning before he even called.

Even if the kiss of a pasty ghost seemed to breathe cold air down Kokichi’s neck, the warmth he found in his voice counteracted the harsh silvery voice hissing in his mind. Like a bursting pipe that was puncturing in holes and shrieking before giving way. That shrieking sound riveted in his core where he finds his most discomforts. He gave a shuddery breath as he sank into his side. 

Shuichi had a way with his gentle words. Because they glossed over what hurt in Kokichi’s mind, which stemmed from his body hurting in more ways than one. Half his mind focused on his deep and stable voice, while the other half thoughtlessly danced along with his firm words. Unshakable, and striking in a delicate way.

He couldn’t comprehend why his decaying self that embodied his soul could please Shuichi. In any way. He’s the kid who’s distant in his mind, the kid who’s loud because he’s trying to block out the screaming inside his own head. Someone who does that strange action where he stands in front of the mirror so he could see his rotting appearance. He has that habit where his fingers catch the sides of his shirt only to pull it tight around his ribs and waist. So he could see just how bad it’s gotten.

He couldn’t believe he ever thought he wasn’t bad enough. Back then, he wasn’t ever too far gone. Because he was pleasing his Photographer, he was _perfect._ He was _beautiful._ Now he’s—he’s just ugly. And hurting, and burning with the want to be okay again. Yet it’s slipping past his fingers. It’s too _late-_ he’s too far _gone-_ _he’s run himself into a fire and can’t get out._

Yet his heart slammed against his thinning rib cage when his bleary eyes caught sight of Shuichi’s soft eyes.  _ “-you’re more than your body…”  _ He whispered, his deep melancholy tone rolls against his shoulders in a way that tumbles down his sternum and hits his aching stomach. Yet it doesn’t hurt, it’s bittersweet and  _ almost  _ burns.  _ Almost.  _

It makes him weak, his head dropped against Shuichi’s shoulder, and those talented hands rub up against his back, cradling him as he breaks down. He was so lost inside his own screaming mind that he hadn’t heard the sobs he made, and yet Shuichi still spoke tenderly. The emotions were unwarranted, they were unprecedented. He doesn’t know what exactly fueled it, or what knocked him over the edge. If anyone asked him why he’d sit in unknowing silence.

Maybe it was the fact that he realized his years of being a doll had hurt. Or the cold shoulder from nearly everyone he thought he cared about. Or the pain that erodes his skin and muscles, tearing away the pride he thought he had. Actually, he was missing a good chunk of himself that dissolved over years of neglect—unbeknownst to him, the victim.

The cries were real and raw. His throat throbbed, as did his lungs. Dragging ragged breaths and using it to putter out trembling exhales. Scrapping it past his slightly crooked teeth, the sting of the unsorted through ache was extraordinarily hard to choke down. Tears began slowly cascading down his red ripened cheeks and just the snot slipped over his lips. 

His voice was ground down to a raspy inhale. The saliva that he kept swallowing was getting sick of collecting on his tongue and soon left the roof of his mouth dry. The backwash of tears tasted awful. His quivering fingers pulled up his collar over his nose to rub off the snot on his own clothes. Because one of Shuichi’s favorite paint-stained shirts had enough tears dripped all over his shoulder. 

“Saihara—” He choked on his name, his throat felt horribly strained. He wants to apologize because he really doesn’t know why he’s so upset. 

“...I know.” Was all he murmured, his gentle fingers still pressed into his back. Comforting, and moving in circles around the points Kokichi hadn’t realized was cramped. “...You don’t have to say anything. I know.” 

Kokichi didn’t try. He didn’t try to speak because it was better to listen to the soft and steady breathing of Shuichi. Whose calm beating heartfelt secure and real. 

The silence of Kokichi’s breathing mingling with Shuichi’s drifted slowly. Paying no mind to the time, Kokichi kept to his side. His heavy head rested on Shuichi’s shoulder, his legs on top of his, his back aching still, feeling every little shape Shuichi traced there for him. Only to have the air disrupted when Shuichi leaned back and removed his hands from around him.

He brushed his hands along his jaw, his thumb resting on his bottom lip. “...hey, that must not feel good.” Kokichi unclamped his teeth. He’d been biting his lip hard, so hard, because he really doesn’t believe he can get better. Not even with Shuichi here. His hand grazed his cheek, holding his palm there. Nothing felt more real.

Kokichi reached up to feel his fingers wrap around Shuichi’s shirt. His hand full of the fabric, as if he’d let go. As if he’d leave him. Shuichi was gazing at him again, seeing something Kokichi wouldn’t ever see in a thousand years. “...Have you've been drinking water at all?” He wondered softly, “...you look pale.” 

He would’ve laughed. Because he’s always pale. But Shuichi has his skin tone memorized by this point, he’d notice if his complexion jumped a color wheel lighter. He shook his head. “...too depressed to take care of myself.” He whispered, voice croaking. “...anxiety’s bein’ an ass and such…” His breath was drudged out of him, eyes stinging, Swollen and puffy. Red rubbed underneath his skin that made his eyes close up. “...I just wanna be sulky, can’t I do that?”

He massaged the front of his neck, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed uncomfortably. It didn’t do much to help the rasp in his throat, but he kept at it anyway. Shuichi chuckled, like a deep rattle of adoration. “...Yeah, you can. But let me get you something to drink. Maybe you can nap too, how’s that sound?”

Kokichi kept his expression sorrowful, humming dutifully in thought. His lips felt chapped, bitten at, and irritated. His eyes stiff and closed against his will. “...that, with some ibuprofen.” He gestured to his head. Tapping his temple with a lackadaisical hand motion. “...bad headache.” 

Shuichi nodded, he pulled himself apart from Kokichi. Leaving him suddenly very cold. “Alright, I’ll be a moment.” 

The pin pricking sensation in his swollen shut eyes canceled his vision, he listened to the footfall of Shuichi walking over to the kitchen. He heard the creak of the sink handle squeaking as Shuichi turned on the water. He heard a cabinet pop open with a plastic clank, soon closing after Shuichi retrieved a glass cup, along with the pill bottle rattling as it popped open. 

His beloved returned to his side. Kokichi felt the couch sink, where he held his hands out, so Shuichi could give him the cup of water and the two little pills. He forced his puffy eyes open a sliver, taking the water and tipping his head back once the rim was against his red chewed-at lips.

The cold water was soothing against his raw throat. It took a re-swallow of the first pill to get it down. Since his throat rejected it the first time, but before he could choke he gave an uncomfortably hard swallow and did the same with the second pill. He let his hurting eyes close, sipping at the water, feeling his senses wake up at its presence. 

He drank all of it. Holding it out for rejection so Shuichi could take it away. He did. Yet Kokichi still held out his arms. Like a child wishing to be picked up. “...you are included in the nap.” He muttered, feeling Shuichi lean forward so he could pull him closer. He easily guided his limbs to fall into place on top of him. 

Comfortably lying on top of Shuichi, with his head against his chest, his cheek against the soft paint-stained fabric. Washed and faded with time. “...I’m all screwy.” He whispered, rubbing his reddened eyes and grey splotches under them. The numbness seeped in as he shifted to be warm and comfortable. “...yet you still like me.”

“I do.” Shuichi hummed. He isn’t tired and probably won’t fall asleep as Kokichi will. “...but I also very much adore you.” Ah… his voice was so grounding. “...and I love you, I’m here for you, even if you’re all screwy. I still cherish that.” 

Maybe it was because Kokichi was tired beyond words, maybe it was because he couldn’t react properly, but Shuichi was propped up enough to press a lingering kiss against his skin. That sensitive spot between his forehead and cheek, beside his eye. Kokichi felt his lips there, even when they were gone.

He fell asleep with that touch. Settled sweetly on his pale skin. Where he forgot how hideous he was, and for just that moment, he believed maybe, maybe he could escape the fire he thought he was lost in.

* * *

The honeysuckle shade of Shuichi’s eyes was empowering in a way Kokichi found reviving. 

It was a dream, those eyes. Deep and lavish in a regal way. Kokichi falls weak each time he catches them. His heart stammering, throbbing in his chest where he finds his tongue drying up. Words disappear, really, they lose their meaning, and all he wishes to do was give him that look. Shuichi knows what he desires, and will come over and give him a lasting hug.

He spent the rest of that sad day, after that rejuvenating nap, doing just that. Crying, giggling, gazing, suffering from a body eroding illness, while being coaxed into love.

He stayed the night, sleeping on the couch after arguing with Shuichi that he didn’t need a proper bed. Only to wake up at three in the morning, his shoulder sparking in familiar discomfort. He went to search for a better position, he glanced up, spotting his beloved in the kitchen. 

Shuichi was poised at his kitchen, chair pulled out and his legs crisscrossed as he held a wide clipboard. A brush in his hands as he painted a wilting flower, drooping on the kitchen window sill. With just one color to imitate the dreary yet oddly calming scene. Serene, tired, sleepy. Comforting in a sympathetic way.

Kokichi had watched for a little while. Gazing at him, Shuichi’s eyes locked in his own little world as he recreated the flower on the windowsill. Using the color black. Eventually, Kokichi got up soundlessly, tiptoeing over to the artist, only to snake his hands around his shoulders. Making the taller jolt in surprise. 

That 3 am interaction lasted a while. Shuichi couldn’t sleep and typically painted when he couldn’t. Kokichi lied and said he couldn’t either, and suggested that he get painted instead. Which he was. Kokichi settled on the window sill, gazing mindlessly, yet sorrowfully at the flower. Soon, Shuichi went to bed at 4 am, smiling.

That morning, Kokichi wandered into the kitchen. Blinking blindly in the early light illuminating the brightly colored kitchen. He hummed, eyes curiously flitting over certain things. When suddenly the presence of his beloved was drawn nearer to him. Arms encircling him, Shuichi took him in his arms. Surprising Kokichi slightly, before he sank into the embrace.

Kokichi had only been paused by the stove, mindlessly fiddling with the knobs, wondering if Shuichi liked breakfast. Even if the smell would only hurt him in ways that would make his stomach drop. It was infuriating on a docile mindset. How food was a constant worry, how many romantic gestures were accompanied by it. A dinner date. A picnic. Valentine's chocolate box. Birthday cake. Wedding delights. 

Boiled down to a gesture to make one breakfast. Oh, how he despised himself for hesitating so much. Yet, Shuichi's arms slipped around him, whispering an early  _ “Good morning”,  _ in his ear. Making Kokichi’s heart falter and stutter for a moment. Comforting warmth bleeding into his face, spreading like melting butter over his cheeks.

Kokichi had his head turned, ear against his chest, his back to him, those capable arms around him in a loving hold. “...Morning.” He muttered in return. Shuichi’s head fell to rest in the crook of his neck, making Kokichi realize that he should have spent the night sooner. To be coddled and greeted like this, Kokichi never recognized this desire to be touched so… sweetly.

“...want to eat something? I’m going to make myself some eggs.” Shuichi had sleep hanging in his voice. His pink lips making his words milky, dripping with the want to crawl back into bed.

Kokichi’s heart seemed to hiccup, but for another reason. Heat rushed to connect with the chills racing down his spine. “As long as…” His eyes drifted over the counter, feeling the breath rising and falling in Shuichi’s chest. Half distracted, but safe, yet the fire he was trapped in made itself known. “...as it’s small. And _—_ we aren’t together.” 

Eating in front of people feels like a crime. How awkward and nervous he feels- he’ll never understand how other people can sit next to one another and laugh, talk, and converse over food. Easily passing mouthfuls past their lips, swallowing with ease. Never hesitating before going for another, smiling, not feeling pain from it.

The heat breathed down his neck at the thought. Thinking Shuichi might be with him anyway, watching him, hovering over him, eyeing his mouthfuls. Making sure he swallows, demanding he has another, and another, _and_ _ano—_

“Hm... alright, want some applesauce?” 

His thoughts halted. Shuichi lifted his head, his chin grazing the top of his unbrushed hair. “...it’s light, and it’s small. You can be in the living room, I can stay here.” 

Kokichi wanted to say he wasn't hungry, and he really wasn’t. Though they both knew it would be a lie. “...okay.” He muttered. Still unwilling to move. Shuichi was the first to remove his arms, he watched him pull out a little container of applesauce, along with a spoon. It wasn’t heavy like yogurt, it was light like he said. It’s small. 

He ate alone in the living room. Still feeling horribly self-conscious. The back of his neck flaring up like someone was there, heat breathing down it, watching. Yet every time he swiveled around to check, he’s alone. As promised. 

He listened to the pan in the kitchen connect with the stove, getting lost in the sizzling noise, as he passed a cold squishy spoonful of applesauce past his lips. Always holding it on his tongue, gently noting that it tastes slightly of cinnamon. He’d lick the spoon till no remanence remained, smacking his lips and repeating till the little container was empty.

Shuichi said this would be good. He’ll have to lay his bleeding heart in those warm hands and trust he won’t let it break.

* * *

“...A schedule?” He repeated, perched on a chair in the kitchen, watching Shuichi make himself dinner. The food he was making was soup, a simple soup that he offered to him. Leaving Kokichi to say that he’ll steal from his bowl only. Shuichi seemed okay with it, filling a reasonable portion for himself, then taking a seat next to him.

“Mhmm.” Shuichi dipped his spoon in the broth. Watching it fill and slowly raising the spoonful to his colored lips. “You wake up at a certain time, have a list of things you do for the day, and then a set time you go to bed.” He slipped the broth filled spoon in his mouth. Smacking softly before going to repeat the action.

Kokichi grimaced. “Sounds like a Bootcamp.” He’s never been to a Bootcamp, but he can only imagine that Bootcamp is just as strict and that schedule sounds militaristic. “...why though?”

Shuichi swallowed after his second mouthful. It was chicken noodle soup, he filled the spoon again, getting no noodles or bits of chicken. Then held it up to Kokichi’s pale lips. Offering it to him. “It… helps to avoid slumps.” He replied, watching Kokichi lean forward hesitantly, closing his mouth around the spoon. “So, you don’t catch yourself staring at the wall thinking damaging thoughts.”

Slumps. Yeah, Kokichi has been in a few. “I feel like it would just make me more depressed.” He said, after holding the soup broth on his tongue, and then swallowing. “...Like my freedom got taken away, or something.” 

This comment made Shuichi hum. Either in agreement or in thought. “...Yeah, but I feel like your thoughts aren’t anymore freeing. And… it’s not like you have to wake up at sunrise. It helps make sure you get enough sleep and eat periodically. So,” He paused, his teeth catching the tip of the spoon, pondering. A pensive expression taking hold of his eyes. “...So you don’t gloss over them.”

Kokichi blinked, just for a moment his eyes lingered over the spoon caught between Shuichi’s lips. Biting the mental in thought, before watching it fall back to the soup. “...That’s, well- ah,” Kokichi’s palms felt clammy, thinking about it. A set schedule, where he would feel obligated to eat meals. Three times a day no less, how could he… “...That’s hard.” He muttered, watching the full spoon pause at his mouth.

“I know.” Shuichi slipped the spoon past Kokichi’s lips, doing that motion where he caught the drip of soup rolling down his chin so it wouldn’t fall on his shirt. “...it—it won’t be as bad as you think. For instance, ah, we can start out with two periods of eating a day. This can go on for, um, let's say a couple of weeks. Before you’re ready to handle three meals a day?”

He bristled at the word meal. Shuddering uncomfortably, his eyes hooked guiltily on the one bowl of soup. How he craved it with a greedy desire. While the guttural growl of his own spite turned in his gut, it bled over the longing with words to help bite back the urge to ask for more. The hunger pangs feel good, it’s comforting, it means he’s doing something right. _ Yet he knows it’s wrong. _

Shuichi noticed his reaction. His amber eyes flitted down to search for a better word. “...snacks?” He wondered, “...A break time?” He’s trying to replace the word meal. Which was considerate. When Kokichi thought of a meal, he thought of a plate full of suffering. Torture, really. Future pain, and slow agonizing digesting process. 

“...Yeah, break time.” Kokichi settled on that. Shuichi had mentioned something earlier that day about making times of eating less stressful as possible. As well as having a place where you go eat. He offered the dining room as a typical setting, and Kokichi found it hard to agree. Sitting in the dining room was like the one at his house. He traded it out with the living room, and Shuichi agreed.

Shuichi nodded, taking a mouthful of soup with noodles and chicken bits. He swallowed, processing another string of thoughts. Kokichi watched, because his interest was carved half out of disgust, and half out of desire. “...We can come up with a list of food items that don’t stress you out. Light things, since you said before it's the heavy things that are hard to deal with.” 

“But it’s—I mean, yeah,” Kokichi stammered, losing his focus when Shuichi offered him the filled spoon. “...It’s also being watched. I just—I feel like, I’m doing something wrong…” He held the soup in his cheeks after accepting it. The flavor was somewhat bland but salty in a savory way. 

Shuichi kept alternating between feeding himself and Kokichi. A pattern, just like everything he did. “...Do you feel anxious now?” He asked softly, his kind eyes gentle as he gazed at him. 

The thought hadn’t made itself known until then. He paused, evaluating the thing rooted deep in the core of his chest. He wasn’t burning, no, not at this moment. “...no.” Which was strange, peculiar, in a sporadic way. When Shuichi caught him eating the yogurt he felt like he’d be sick. However, at this moment, he feels okay. 

“Why’s that?” He prodded, gently, like always. 

_ I don’t know. _ That’s his first thought. However, there is a notable difference between both feedings. “...You're giving this to me.” He muttered, almost hiding in the shadow of shame. “...so it’s okay, I’m not doing anything wrong.” His eyebrows met together, wistful, brooding over the moments. “...I’m not in the wrong if I’m accepting something from someone else.” 

“Yet when your mom gave you that dinner you felt as if you were in the wrong?”

“...That was different. I felt like I didn’t have agency.”

“Ah, so you were under the pressure of obligation.”

Kokichi hummed. Licking his lips and fighting the want to slap the spoon out of his hands so he could stop. But he wants this, yet he doesn’t. Shuichi was so kind, gentle and so heartachingly considerate. 

The sensitively sweet artist didn’t want to see him dressed in certain clothes. He wouldn’t touch him in any way Kokichi wasn’t okay with. He didn’t want him to look a certain way, he wouldn’t shove anything down his throat, he would stop when Kokichi turned his head away. But Kokichi never rejected a spoonful when it came.

“Are you afraid of her?” The artist asked. Completely innocently, but Kokichi felt almost insulted. Yet that was just his pride shaking in denial. 

He reached up and used his index and middle finger to twirl a lock of hair nervously. Or- rather in guilt. “...Not necessarily.” He let his purple irises drift so he wouldn’t have to look at Shuichi or the soup. “She’s just unpleasant to be around. She admits the toxic aura of like, a divorced person who wants to make sure everyone knows marriage sucks or something.” 

He saw the flicker of understanding in Shuichi’s humble eyes. “She sucks the happiness out of the room.”

Kokichi nodded. “Uh-oh, don’t tell me you have crap parents too.”

The boy beside him chuckled hollowly. Swallowing hard on the broth. “Unfortunately.”

He groaned when he heard that. “Saihara, I’m the only one who's supposed to be dysfunctional. You’re supposed to be the perfect angel with a lovely family I can adopt myself into.” He reached beside him to loop his arm around Shuichi’s waist. Scooting his chair so he was pressed against his side comfortably. “...Only I can have parental issues. Otherwise, we cancel each other out.” 

This time Shuichi genuinely laughed. Taking one hand to return the gesture. Patting his side as he fiddled with the spoon twirling around in the soup. “I have a stable support system currently. My friends' grandparents are sweet, and check on me regularly.” Ah, that’s right. Shuichi’s friends with a guy named Kaito. Their grandparents do sound sweet.

After another spoonful, Shuichi shifted back to his original point. “...Anyway, so your mom is grueling and taxing to be around, so your anxiety is more likely to act up.”

“Not _ more likely, _ it’s guaranteed.” He corrected. His focus zeroed on the spoon sitting still in the soup. His hand twitched, the cold rush coasted down his fingers, the strong metallic feeling that he shouldn’t. The heat pierced his neck once again as if those flatlined stones of eyes were waiting for him to take the bait. Yet his hand was already raised, halfway reaching for the bowl. 

Shuichi seemed to notice the gesture. He pushed the half-eaten portion towards him. “You can have it.” 

Kokichi shook his head. Pushing down his hand to turn his eyes elsewhere. He doesn’t want to feel the repercussions of it later. He isn’t even sure if it will act up later, he’s with Shuichi, and he isn’t going back. At least not anytime soon. He’s still furious with his Photographer. “...I shouldn’t.” He weakly replied. Not as strong as his thoughts burned.

The silence of pensive thoughts passed through them. Shuichi’s distant stare was fixated on the bowl, while Kokichi’s gaze was analyzing the stains around Shuichi’s cuffed sleeves. “...You want it, yet you won’t let yourself have it.” The artist concluded. Still sounding unsure, he looked at him to ensure it, to get a confirmation. Kokichi merely offered a bob-ish nod.

“...I got snapped at too many times.” He muttered, his eyes narrowing in bitter memory. Being caught, being seen, followed by an expression growing displeased with anger. Hands that are meant to be gentle would take his wrist and force the fork or chopsticks from his fingers. The nourishment- or rather, the mistake, wiped away.

He can’t unburn the scars. He can’t unlearn the lessons taught with a strict diet. Kokichi felt his face grow paler as he recanted the words he’s adopted. 

“...reaching for something I want—probably means I shouldn’t have it at all.”

* * *

In a wistful way, Kokichi enjoyed the silence moments. The moments where Shuichi’s tired but can’t sleep. They would typically end up on the couch, or in the chilly kitchen passing a fork or spoon between their lips, a habit Kokichi fell into. He only ate small amounts comfortably when Shuichi offered every bite. Eventually, Shuichi had warned one day, that he was going to let him eat by himself.

Even still, Kokichi couldn’t forget about the knot diminishing his muscle mass. Currently, the temperature in the home was cold. Shuichi painted better when the air was as chilly as his thoughts. Gliding a dipped paintbrush along a rough felted surface. Kokichi found him sitting on the floor, a small canvas propped up, but a generous amount of space between his work, and his chest.

He crawled over beside him, liking his small lithe body for once as he delicately pulled Shuichi’s arm back so he could place himself in his lap. The artist made no movements to disagree with the action. Only shifting so he could be just as comfortable as Kokichi. Who had his head leaned back against his shoulder, so Shuichi could still properly see his work.

“Are you…” Kokichi squinted at his painting. Even though he could see well enough. “...painting me from memory?”

_ Impressive, _ he thinks. So far he’s got his face shape memorized, following down to his slim neck and narrow shoulders. He’s got his hands on his hips in this painting, the details of his face have yet to be added. He jokes and thinks he’s like slenderman. 

“...By now I’ve got you memorized.” He chuckled, making another stroke, curving naturally to create Kokichi’s hip. “Like always… you’re a work of magnificent art. Always fascinating me and catching my interest, even when I’m not gazing at you.” 

Ah, the warmth in Kokichi’s face sunk into his cheeks. Tinting his nose and ears a rosy shade. It seemed to bleed down into his chest. Pooling around his heart, sparking a flame in the cold den that resides with anxiety for too long. Where the hours wreak havoc in places he always assumes is too  _ bare _ to be light again.

_ Bare. _ Meaning unclothed, uncovered, left naked in some way, shape, form, or fashion. Gazing into the stokes Shuichi carefully, and delicately placed. Soothing the rough parts where the paint fades into lavish deep strokes. In this painting, Kokichi is bare-chested. He watched him swipe downward, his fingers poised, positioned, amber eyes faded in a world he saw.

The shorts he seemed to envision fit Kokichi’s tastes. Memorized, truly. The warm feeling dripping into his heart was so vibrantly comforting that it stung in an unfamiliar way. He’s addicted to that feeling, that feeling of being  _ special. _

He always wanted to feel that. Since he was young, he saw his Photographer take such great pride in her pictures. Wearing her camera like a medal of honor. He’d see the gleam in her eyes that sparked every time someone complimented her talent and perspective. He always,  _ always _ wanted to be her pride. 

Yet taking the forefront of her pictures she cherished so dearly, he discovered it was never the subject of the photo. It was always just the  _ photo. _

“...I always wanted my Photographer to do that.” He muttered, his eyes falling distant as he relaxed against him. “...to think I’m fascinating and talented.” When Shuichi used his paintbrush to caress the white fabric, recreating Kokichi, he drew him bare but highlighted his beauty. He wasn’t making him appealing, not in a physically attractive way. He made him beautiful, painting him how he is, in the light he sees him in.

His Photographer pictured him bare. Positioned him bare. Uncovered, left cold, photo after photo. Measuring his body, reminding him in a clipped tone that they should change this,  _ shift that, rearrange this meal, skip that one. He’s grown too fatty, he’s gotten too slim _ . “...I was never enough for her.”

Shuichi’s tender hands paused. His head turned slightly, moving his chin against his temple. “...I was wondering,” He said softly, his eyes shifting, but not his head, as he resumed his painting of him. “Why do you refer to your mother as your photographer? She doesn’t take pictures of you anymore, does she?”

A beat of silence slipped in between them. Like a thin wall Kokichi laid up around his softly ringing ears. His lips felt suddenly chapped, tongue going dry. “...It,” His eyebrows pinched together as his irises darted down to watch Shuichi’s pale fingers curve around the brush. “...It suits her.” He said, pausing with his teeth raking over his bottom lip.

“Suits her?” Shuichi parroted, his voice soft. 

He nodded. “...The word ‘mother’, or that title, is supposed to belong to someone who is nurturing. Someone affectionate and...caring. Of course, I could call her that because I am her blood and bones, but…” He grimaced, his expression reeling back in light disgust at the thought. “...She never  _ mothered _ me. You could say I’m being a brat, which, I am, but it kinda sucks when just the sight of you makes them disappointed.” 

In this sense, he means it. He never looks right. He’s grating to listen to. “It kinda sucks when you try hard to win someone's pride and care. It sucks even harder when leaving them alone, after telling them you’re fed up with them—and it doesn't even-  _ phase  _ them.” He’s grounded it down to ‘them’ now. Making it less specific, less personal.

Kokichi never even called his Photographer by her name. He stopped calling her ‘mom’ when she asked him to call her his Photographer in public. Giving her a name would be giving her identity, making her human, making her seem like she’s a fitful character in a story. When she isn’t, she’s cold-hearted and broken.

Emotions were brewing where the warm feeling had pooled. The wordless air encouraged him to keep going, and he knew Shuichi would listen. “It sucks when you have to take care of yourself when you're sick because you're too gross to touch. It sucks when I begged not to go to photoshoots and they would make me go anyway.”

He remembered standing in front of the camera. Feet bare against the rough felted backdrop. Shoulders cold and naked to the air. He’d turn his head so his brushed hair would fall over his eyes, all so she wouldn’t capture the tears slowly rolling down his pale cheeks. She threatened to post pictures of his more vulnerable moments had he not stood posed.

By this point, Shuichi had stopped painting altogether. Kokichi felt when he went stiff. When just a moment ago he was encouraging him to spill his words over the topic of his guardian. Whose never regarded him in the least. Or had the silence been a means to tell him to stop? Rather than to continue? 

He curved his eyes over to see Shuichi’s facial expression. His eyes were full of memory, dark, and clouded. Soon filled with sorrow and grief. “...I understand.” He whispered. His eyes still froze, staring at nothing, but so dead set on it. “...She’s not a mother to you, not a real one.” There some unfound aggressive hiding in his words. Kokichi would press on it, but last time he did that, he triggered Shuichi.

The half-finished painting was set down on the floor. The paint and paintbrush were quick to lie beside them. Still, movements so calculated, nearly jerkish. This behavior typically bubbled to the surface when he was irked. Irritated by something, and for a nervous heartbeat, Kokichi feared he would be scolded for running his mouth.

“...What’s wrong?” He croaked, his voice awkwardly creaking. 

Shuichi drew his eyes to gaze into his, a serious demeanor bleeding into those grey honeysuckle hues. His now free hands circled him, fitting Kokichi in a cocoon, sitting in his lap, tucked comfortably under his warm folded arms. Like a shelter that Kokichi felt very… safe in. Shuichi’s head rested on his shoulder. Exhaling gently, where his breath coasted along his neck.

“...It’s nothing.” He murmured, his lip movement tickling the hairs of his neck. “...listening to you sounding so hurt by her, it seems that in the days away... you still have a long way to go before accepting her.” The words that tumbled from his lips left Kokichi entirely confused.

_ Accepting her. _ In what way? Kokichi fitted his slim and fragile hands around Shuichi’s sturdy and healthy wrists. He adores Shuichi, he would give hours to listen to him speak, and he’d heed his advice when it comes. However, he doesn’t understand what he means now. “...What do you mean?” He asked, nearly afraid of the answer.

Shuichi shifted his head slightly, his deep ocean hair falling over lavish purple. “...You don’t seem to have accepted the fact she did that to you.”

His fingers twitched, a part of him disagreeing. “Of course I have, that’s why I’m so— _ angry _ with them.”

A simple shake of his head was Shuichi’s reply. “...You agree your photographer hurt you. But you don’t like accepting that your mom hurt you.” 

Those seemed to be the words to strike a nerve. A burning sense of dread swirling like a mass of cumulonimbus clouds, racking up the static energy to explode with force. He twisted his head to catch something else with his eyes. To focus on something else. Maybe even the pit in his stomach. For once he’d welcome its growl, all to distract Shuichi.

“...moms care for their kids.” Kokichi gritted. “...moms celebrate their kids' birthdays, they worry about where they are, they make sure they eat yummy meals, they—they have _ hearts. _ ” The trepidation wallowed in his chest, apprehension, and hate boiled around his heart, anxiety pooling under his stomach. Squeezing up between his ribs.

Kokichi shuddered out a breath. “...they take care of their kids' needs and meet them. My Photographer treats me like nothing but a  _ model _ who didn’t make the  _ cut. _ ” His words have built-up pressure around them. The hissing broken pipe of his emotions squeezing past the cheap tape made to hold it together.

Shuichi remained silent. Kokichi had to look at him, his eyes fixating on his wandering golden hues. Lost in thought, weaving through words to say. Leaving Kokichi in suspense. Biting his tongue, sucking on his bottom lip. Waiting. The breath of Shuichi smelled faintly of the nicotine he’d seen him smoke.  _ He’d been in a lot of thought lately. _

“...Kokichi, she treats you like a model, not necessarily a human with needs. Just someone who needs to look perfect, who needs to be perfect, she never treated you like a son.” He recanted softly, whispering the deathly fragile words in his ear. Delivering them gently, leaving Kokichi to think there was a heavy catch. “...You wanted to be recognized by her, you wanted her to be proud of you, and you searched for it, and didn’t find it.”

“...Sai...Shuichi.” The lilt in his tone faltered as Shuichi continued. 

“...It hurts you, I know it does. However,” Just that pause alone made Kokichi’s chest ache. “...you treat her like a photographer. You treat her as a profession. Someone who takes pictures, and gets money off of it. You stopped treating her like your mother, to avoid the heartbreaking realization that she won’t fill your needs.” Shuichi gazed into the far depths of Kokichi’s mind right through his eyes. “You both are doing the same thing to each other.”

His weak jaw dropped. The facts that Shuichi laid before him—what he was accusing him of, was acting just as his Photographer would. He was following her footsteps. The rot inside him, swirling around that woman seemed to swell and seep into his very marrow. He was just like her. The knowledge of that made his abdomen clench and twist, and not in starvation. Disgust. Pure and guttural disgust. 

Kokichi’s tongue went dry. The roof of his mouth was souring at the words. Floating in the air, and turning it toxic and nonbreathable. “I’m—” Denial pinched his throat. Scorching his mind and pressing in on his throbbing temples. “ _ I’m not like them. _ ” He hissed, reeling at the thought of it, and  _ yet,  _ Shuichi could be right—was he? No… He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Kokichi refused to believe it. 

Shuichi held him close against his chest. Cherished, and loved. The hot longing burned in his eyes, how much he loved it when he held him like this, even when he was hurting. Even when he refuted his claims. The artist, so kind, so gentle, even now his hands calmingly brushed against his arms, trying to soothe him. Reassure him. “...It’s okay.” He whispered. 

Kokichi only shook his head. Hating the mere indication that he could be like them. “It’s not, it isn’t… I’m not like them. I care about what you have to say—what you need—what you like—and-…” His breath cut short, forcing it all up like that at once left him catching the air he lost. He dragged it back past his crooked teeth. 

“...You don’t treat her like a human.” Shuichi whispered. “...and it’s okay, you aren’t a bad person because of it, it’s alright…” 

Kokichi denied it. Shaking his head. Hot tears scorching his cheeks slowly. “...I’m not like  _ them. _ I’m not like  _ her. _ I-I don’t want to be. I’m not. They never wanted me to call them mom. They have no heart, they—”

“...They do have a heart.” Shuichi interrupted. And yet he cut him off so softly. His voice is silky smooth, velvety as always. Deep, and soothing. Splicing Kokichi’s rushed words of utter denial and refuting them with firmness, and kindness. “...She has a heart, so do you. She ignored your feelings, and thus you ignored hers. It's okay… It’s wonderful you realized being around her would do nothing but drain you, she wasn’t helping you, her efforts haven't ever met your needs.” 

The break in his words left Kokichi room to say something. Yet what could he say that wasn’t objections? He was a broken record that was scratching every round he started up again. His eyes pinched nearly closed as he tried to wrest away the hot and frustrated tears. Only to feel Shuichi thumb them away. 

“...It's so good that you aren’t in a home where you can’t heal.” He continued, just as kindly, just as considerately. “...But I want you to see she’s a human. Flawed, and hurting in some way that wasn’t mended properly. It’s only natural you adopted some of her qualities, she raised you—”

“She didn’t _ raise _ me.” 

Shuichi huffed out a breath of air, talking back over his statement. “Someone must have given her the cold shoulder, so she doesn’t know how to love you the way you need.”

“She—...” Kokichi winced, “She’s  _ supposed _ to. She was supposed to  _ care _ about me. She was supposed to  _ love me _ .” Confessing these words felt like coughing up hard and ragged rocks. Jagged from shattering onto a rough surface.

“...You’re so set on her being the one to care about you.” Shuichi mulled over him. Taking his claims into consideration and going with his pain, where it hurt the most. “...When there are a thousand other people in this world, ‘Kichi. Millions of others who can meet your needs, give you that comfort, that praise, and love you.” 

_ Yes, it’s hard. _ Kokichi heard the unspoken words of Shuichi’s mind. Words he’d probably say but didn’t. _ But you have me. I’m here. I’m here to support you. _

“...I’m here to love you…” He murmured. “...To help you, and aid you…” 

Kokichi dug his teeth into his bottom lip. Screwing his eyes shut as he felt the gentleness of his hands fondle over his wet cheeks. His heart seemed to give out, his hands quivering much like his bottom lip. Those tender fingers brushed his silky bangs out of his clamped eyes. Careful to keep the strands from sticking to his cheeks. “...work on accepting that your mom hurt you.” He whispered, trying to help him. “...once you do, let it sting, then let it heal. It will feel better. The tightness in your chest will fade, and you’ll sleep easier, even eat without an upset stomach…”

The echo of experience resounded in Shuichi’s voice. Heavy with knowledge and unfiltered care. Of course, he knows better, he’s gone through the fiery blaze of it. Yet he’s so very willing to take Kokichi’s hand and lead him through his own horribly prickly vineyard. Telling him based on his own experience on how to best avoid the prickers. Less blood. Fewer skin slits. Less pain as possible.

“...I don’t wanna be an awful person…” He puttered, his voice strained with hurt, trembling like a child's. He doesn’t want to be like his Photographer. His mom. His guardian. His caretaker. 

“You're not… you are a good person. Deep within you, you only meant to be good. That’s all you ever wanted. To be enough.” Those words took another crack at Kokichi. Tearing back his skin to emotionally strip him bare. “...and you are enough. I love every inch of you. I want to see you heal, and you will. Gradually… but you will.” 

He reached over to pick up his painting. Still cradling Kokichi in his lap. “...see?” He spoke mellowly. Coaxing Kokichi to open his pretty purple eyes. When he did look, he saw just as he saw it before. “...this is you now.” He murmured. Tracing a finger along the dried streaks of Kokichi’s portrait. “...but look at you then.” 

Shuichi shifted, moving to reach for his phone that had been lying beside him. He brought the screen to where he could see. After a few gentle taps, Shuichi opened his photos. A whole album of his paintings loaded into the blank squares, and he clicked on one from roughly a month ago. 

The first painting Shuichi ever mimicked lit up his screen. Besides the current painting, Kokichi could see the comparison. Wiping away the sloppy tears with his own shaky hands, he peered at the familiar image. 

In the older image, Kokichi could see it. His collarbone striking the viewers as very noticeable. Jutting out and so were his cheeks. Hollow and a bit sunken. Stretched with a lack of nourishment. His torso gilded inward, an obvious dip where his waist was so incredibly small. Legs like twigs, muscle, or fat never filling the clothes he wore. Always hanging off him, baggy and bulky. Trying to make up from what he lacked.

In comparison, the current painting had much difference. His face was a tad bit fuller. His cheeks were more rounded, ever so slightly. Embarrassingly, Kokichi found his fingers prodding at his face, wondering if the difference was true. His eyes coasted down, looking at the way Shuichi painted his torso, still slim and skinny, but  _ fuller. _

His ribs are still visible, but ever so softly covered a bit more. In the older painting, he may be wearing more clothes. But Kokichi knows what he thinks he looks like. They don’t match. Yet he could admit it was true. There was one crease around his abdomen, ever so detailed, adding just a slim bit more width to his thighs and calves. Still stick-like, but more durable.

Shuichi was not only painting him, he was documenting his recovery.

“...You’re doing so well already. You wouldn’t have noticed...but it’s there. You’re  _ healing _ Kokichi.” 

Shuichi always pulled him through the blinding range of painful emotions, tossing him through turbulent waves, letting his hands get burned in the flames, letting him trip and fall down a horribly rocky and windy hill. Only to let him experience the relief that came with it on the other side. He hasn’t made it to that side yet, and he’s still hurting.

But he’ll trust him. Believe him. He was left speechless. Watching him set down his phone and the painting. Returning his arms around him. Holding him against his warm and living body. The fire that once encased Kokichi was beginning,  _ just beginning _ , to dwindle. Allowing him to see a way out, clearing through the suffocating smoke and skin scorching ashes.

“...Shuichi…” Kokichi murmured. Suddenly feeling the hunger roll and tumble in his stomach. Not the shame that came with wanting to eat, not the guilt of biting back the urge to ask for stability. His name was all he could push up past the lump in his throat. He reached his little arms around Shuichi’s neck, making him lean down, making him bend to his will. Here on the floor, in this studio, splattered in paint and memories.

His fingers were colorless. Weakly dropping around to cup Shuichi’s cheeks. Supple and soft, pressing in gently as Kokichi pushed his palms against them with the slightest pressure. His bitten thumb curiously ran over Shuichi’s lips. Slowly, feeling him shudder at the sensation under his fingertips.  _ Ticklish _ , he noted. His eyes were drawn half-lidded. Eyes drifting into a haze. Heart pounding with anger, sorrow, and fluttery lightness.

Shuichi’s warm hands weave to support the back of his head. Fingers weaving through his purple tousled hair. Pulling him closer, tilting his chin up to be in sync with Shuichi’s own. Unspoken, known longing, a warmth spreading through his chest, the distance—the closeness, the space they were sharing so intimately. 

Kokichi wanted to—he wanted this, this serenity. Where he feels his emotions burning the brightest. His gratitude bubbling to the surface with the heat of his care. He could only bear the gap for so long before he gave into the kind touch Shuichi gave selflessly. 

Holding his face, cupped between his hands, he pressed his lips against his. Kissing him with the delicacy he showed him for weeks without end. The electricity shocked him, resounding in his heart, beating so rapidly, his hands sliding down, losing himself once he felt those arms wrap tighter around him.

This was their first kiss. A real one. He’s been on the couch, lying on top of him when accidentally brushing their lips together. Kisses that were meant for the cheek sometimes would occasionally miss their mark and land sweetly on half his pinched and unwilling lips. Yet now, now he’s so very willing.

A gentle passion dripped from their shared and mingled breaths. A promise to be here. For one another. A love passed silently between a motion mutually given. Even tickling a giggle out of him, light and airy, noses brushing, teeth clacking, a smile was born between two mouths. 

Fingers still dancing along the nape of their necks. Dancing in their hair, twirling, and unwinding. The adoration he received from his gentle touches, even when he pulled away to breathe, was narrowly empowering. The wash of security bleeding into his heart, a surety, a promise, a realness to his words. 

Kokichi found the gift of a kiss innocent. Purity seeping from this kindness and rawness. Even when he laid against Shuichi’s chest, murmuring how he was awful, so awful as to make him feel so loved. He felt the tender pressure of a kiss against his temples, against his cheek, and forehead. Humming in contentedness, savoring the gratifying feeling of his physical reassurance.

“You’ll get better…” He murmured. Still coddling him in his lap, rubbing his back, his shoulders, kissing his soft face with sweet touches. “...and as much as it will take time, know that I’m here,” Shuichi said, dripping with honesty. 

Kokichi mumbled another feeble string of words. Gripping onto Shuichi, hands bundling his shirt fabric in his palms. Fingers digging into the cloth. “...I believe you…” He muttered, trying to sound coherent. “...I believe you, I really,  _ really _ do.” He swallowed the lump pestering his throat, the pain was still in certain ways riddling his body. But one thing that didn’t relentlessly burn was his chest. Calmed, no longer as turbulent. “...Just,” He sank further into his hold, allowing himself to be cradled in his lap. “...don’t let go. At least, not now…”

Shuichi chuckled, the vibration in his throat was felt against Kokichi’s cheek. “... let's move to the couch at least. The floor, as much as it is romantic, isn’t quite as comfortable.” But before Kokichi could whine about not wishing to let go, Shuichi shuffled, wobbling a bit, but managing to get his feet under him and stand. Kokichi was lifted nearly effortlessly in his arms.

He carried him out of the studio, leading him into the living room. The glass door connected to the living space was pouring an evening light into the room. Oranges, yellows, magentas, pressing together in a swirling shadow on the living room floor. Shuichi settled there, under the sunset lighting. 

Kokichi was quick to comfort himself. Ignoring the need to eat once more, opting to bury himself within Shuichi’s embrace. Fitting himself snuggly in his arms. This time he wasn’t crying, this time he wasn’t upset or longed to be asleep rather than awake. This time he simply cherished Shuichi. His warmth, his love, he’d deal with his roaring emotions in another moment.

At this moment. He’d close his eyes, sink into his touch, and promise himself that he’ll get better. Even though his insides are still cramped with the lack of a meal, even when he hiccups with anxiety, even when he despised his Photographer above all else. He’d get better. Eventually.

“...Kokichi.” 

“...mm?”

“May I paint you again tomorrow?”

A chuckle warmed the air as he enveloped himself in his welcoming and inviting arms. He’d probably wake up with a bout of panic, he might not sit through the next meal, but this was okay. He was okay, and he could allow himself to believe it’s alright.

“Sure, Saihara-chan.” He hushedly agreed, turning his head to press a fluttery kiss to his chin. “...Anytime, and any day. I’d love to be your model.” 

* * *

_ Beep. _

_ Beeep.. _

_ Beeeep... _

**_[Your call has been forwarded to voicemail; please leave a message after the tone]_ **

_ … _

_ “Ah… hey.” _

_ “I… know you get like—really busy during the day. But um. It’s been a really long time, and I... got better.” _

_ “...My boyfriend, Saihara Shuichi… he really helped me. And he does make me really, really happy. He helped me eat better too…” _

_ “It’s been a long summer, and school starts again soon. I got your call on my birthday. I… honestly feel sorta guilty not returning it. I was still mad at you. But _ — _ I want to tell you all about Shuichi, and I… want to hear about how you’re doing too. So. Call me back.”  _

_ “Cuz I miss you...mom.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I had to end with a tidbit with his mom. Forgive meh.]
> 
> MORAL OF THE STORY: Man there's a lot to take away from this.
> 
> \- People are human. Even the sour, non-open-minded, cruel, ones. Everyone has flaws. And everyone can learn from them, no matter how slow or fast.
> 
> \- Love can be shown in multiple ways. This focused more on a romantic relationship, where love doesn’t only come in a physical/sexual sense.
> 
> \- Respect all life. People come from different backgrounds. Kindness shouldn’t be earned. Even if you have been hurt before. Trust differs from kindness. You don’t have to trust someone to be kind.
> 
> \- We can’t heal in an environment that deals out far more harm than good.
> 
> \- Recovery is a slow process. A very gradual one.
> 
> There are many other messages sprinkled in here. I’ll let you interpret it as you please. Thank you for reading. Comments, kudos, and support mean a ton.

**Author's Note:**

> The reason it ends there is because I checked the word count, and thought _-Hooooly crap, no one's gonna read that._ So if you read it all, thanks for sticking to it.
> 
> Gah, I'm sorry if this was uneventful. I wasn't going to post it, but I re-read it a couple of days after it finished and thought it was worth it. It was originally supposed to go off into a part where Shuichi was with Kokichi helping him realize love is not only something portrayed in forced pictures. But I felt like that's overdone? Hope those who read it all enjoyed.


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